


taste on my tongue

by bethaboo



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Harry, Bottom Louis, Cooking, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Oral Sex, Reality TV, Sexual Tension, also some d/s negotation, as for the sex they share that really, but its honestly so mild, very tiny d/s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-04-17 10:46:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 77,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4663725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bethaboo/pseuds/bethaboo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis Tomlinson, second place winner on TXF four years ago, is looking to reinvent his career. </p>
<p>Harry Styles is a baker who is desperate for a bakery of his own.</p>
<p>Louis doesn't bake. Or cook. Or know how to use an oven.</p>
<p>Take Louis. Take Harry. Add in a heaping cup of sexual tension. Another cup of delicious (and not so delicious) food. A smidgen of competitive spirit. A dash of hopes and dreams. And you get Kitchen Wars, a TV show that promises to be the must-watch event of the fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ta da!
> 
> My new fic is finally live!
> 
> This will have ten chapters (one for before the show starts, then a chapter per week of the competition on Kitchen Wars).
> 
> A small word about Kitchen Wars: it's a show that's basically invented by me, but takes heavy inspiration from Cutthroat Kitchen and Chopped on the Food Network and some from Masterchef and other cooking reality competitions. But in the end, the invention is all mine.
> 
> One more note, there are a ton of characters in this because Kitchen Wars has a number of contestants. Most of the listed characters will not be major. I promise!
> 
> Thanks to my wonderful betas [Sus](http://lululawrence.tumblr.com/) and [Clare](http://bearmustard.tumblr.com/)
> 
> UPDATE: a version of this story is being published in August 2017 by [Ink & Smith Publishing](http://www.inkandsmith.com/). don't worry, this version will stay on ao3, but if you'd like, join the TOMT squad [here](http://www.inkandsmith.com/tomt-squad/).

Louis Tomlinson, second place winner on _The X-Factor_ four years ago, realizes he’s in serious trouble when the first question his brand new agent—promised to bring him out of sugary pop purgatory and at the very least into semi-respectable pop music stardom—asks him, “can you cook?”

 

Louis groans into his phone and seriously considers flinging it off his balcony. “You want _me_ to cook for _you_?” he snipes. “Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around?”

 

“Louis,” Alberto says warningly. As he should. Alberto is good news. He’s the only news that Louis has got anyway. He really should be nicer to him, but well  . . .

 

He might be a little testy. Things haven’t been going his way lately. He came out of the closet at exactly the wrong time in his post- _X-Factor_ career, right at the moment when all those super malleable young girls genuinely believed they might have his babies one day. He doesn’t regret the honesty, only the timing, and how it decimated what was looking like a decent career.

 

His publicist had begged him to wait til his third album—his _serious_ album, she’d called it and he’d actually laughed in her face—but now she’s the only one laughing. He’d done exactly as he’d wanted and now there might not even _be_ a serious album to poke fun at.

 

Alberto, his new agent, is supposed to open all kinds of doors and make things happen, but all he apparently wants to talk about is the one room in Louis’ house that he’s literally never in more than ten seconds at a time—the kitchen.

 

Basically, Louis wants to toss his phone off the balcony and say _fuck it_ to all those silly teenage dreams of making it big. _The X-Factor_ was supposed to take care of those once and for all, but all the show really did was show Louis a tantalizing future that he just can’t quite grasp.

 

Instead, he takes a deep breath and answers the question.

 

“Not even a little.”

 

“That’s okay,” Alberto insists brightly. “That’s totally okay. They don’t even mind. Not knowing anything might actually work in your favor.”

 

“Alberto,” Louis says slowly, “you do realize I’m a _singer_ ,right? Like I write songs, and well, if anybody cares to listen, I _sing_ them?”

 

“Louis,” Alberto says with equally exaggerated slowness and it dawns on Louis that his brand new agent may be poking fun at him and not all that subtly either, “you do realize that we need to raise your profile? This show could be a golden opportunity.”

 

“What show?” Louis hates to ask, he really, really does. But Alberto is right. He does need to raise his profile. He needs to appeal to a different demographic than the one that wanted to have his babies until they discovered the only way he might want that is if they’re surrogates for him and his mythical husband-to-be.

 

Cooking might be good, he thinks. Cooking means older women. Maybe even young hip singles trying to impress dates. He can do that in his sleep. He can totally be hip.

 

“It’s called _Kitchen Wars_ ,” Alberto explains. “You’d be paired with a chef and the two of you would have to be the last pair standing after seven cooking challenges. There’s also something in the description about bidding and auctions. Not sure how that fits in. But it’s going to be big, I think. They’ve got some really well-known chefs participating. Same producers as _Strictly Come Dancing_.”

 

Louis wants to suggest that he might be better on _Strictly_ , but that might also require a lot more effort on his part. If he’s not going to have to cook on his own, he can probably totally skate by on the chef’s ability.

 

“Count me in,” Louis says, pretending to be a lot braver than he really feels.

 

“Next week is meeting the producers. You aren’t guaranteed a spot, but you’re definitely on their radar.” Alberto then rattles off another half-dozen struggling pop stars, same as Louis, that are his potential competition.

 

At least Alberto seems to think they are, but Louis knows better. He knows how good he is on TV. During his year of _The X-Factor_ , he definitely didn’t the best voice, didn’t always nail his performances, but he knows there’s something wildly magnetic about the way he and a camera interact.

 

He knows he’s practically a shoe-in, cooking skills or not.

 

\--

 

Louis feels confident before he meets the producers, but afterwards, he’s convinced it’s a sure thing. He’s going to be on _Kitchen Wars_ , whether he likes it or not.

 

“Should have tried to convince you about _Strictly_ ,” Louis mourns into the phone.

 

“That would require them being interested in you, Louis,” Alberto says, still so patiently.

 

Louis never thought he would actually wish he’d learn ballroom dancing instead of cooking.

 

He never thought that people would rather see him cook than sing, either. So pretty much this is all a massive adjustment of his expectations.

 

The problem is that it’s hard to get excited about cooking. Eating is great, but the cooking part is something he definitely likes somebody— _anybody_ —else to take care of. Unfortunately, after reading the exact setup of the show that the producers have sent over, along with a preliminary version of the contract, Louis has begun to realize that coasting by on the chef’s skill alone is not going to work.

 

The whole _point_ of the show, which Alberto conveniently failed to mention, is that the celebrity learns how to cook.

 

Louis really, really, _really_ doesn’t want to learn how to cook.

 

But he still wants to sell millions of records, and hear his songs on the radio, and still get recognized when he pops down to Tesco for bread and milk. So he signs the contract despite all his misgivings that there is pretty much no one on earth that will be _able_ to get him to cook, nevermind interest him in legitimately trying.

 

It turns out he’s wrong on both counts.

 

\-----

 

A month later, the show finally starts.

 

The first week is a ‘cooking bootcamp’—and yes, Louis definitely rolls his eyes. “Could have copied _The X-Factor_ just a little more, you think,” Louis replies back sarcastically when Alberto emails over the show schedule. The point of the bootcamp is to teach them about the rules of the show and to also give the chefs a bit of time to teach the celebrities some cooking basics.

 

When Louis walks into the studio for the first day of bootcamp and sees his chef, he has to instantly revise all his expectations. The man in front of him is all long lines and lean legs and succulent thighs and this sculpted torso that literally nobody that cooks for a living should have, topped off by a wild curly mane that Louis’ fingers itch to touch, wide green eyes, and a pair of lips that send his mind straight to the gutter.

 

It turns out there is most definitely a man out there that will interest Louis in learning to cook.

 

The topper is when Louis saunters over, eyes flicking over those long legs in tight jeans and the little glimpses of tattoos he sees through his mostly-unbuttoned shirt, the chef actually _blushes_.

 

“Louis Tomlinson,” Louis says, extending a hand. “I believe it’s your sorry lot to teach me to cook.”

 

The man flushes even pinker as he takes Louis’ hand, and Louis tries not think of the implications of his hand practically being swallowed by such a monster paw. “Um, Harry. Harry Styles.”

 

For one rather breathless moment, they stare at each other, Harry’s hand clasping Louis’, his palm warm and soft and slightly damp with nerves, and Louis feels his heart start to beat faster. He feels almost breathless with the possibilities, and it’s hard to deny that Harry doesn’t look equally blown away.

 

Harry reluctantly releases his hand. “I’m a huge fan,” he adds. “Really, you should have won your year. Can’t believe you got beat by Cher Lloyd.”

 

Louis can definitely believe it. Second was way higher than he ever thought he’d end up. But you can say all you want about Louis—and many, _many_ people have—he’s driven to succeed even when the cards seem stacked against him.

 

So Louis just shrugs and leans back, all purposefully seductive curves as tries to figure out if the way Harry’s fluttering his eyelashes at him means he’s actually interested in flirting or if this is just Harry’s natural state of being.

 

“Tough breaks,” Louis says. He doesn’t mention that the second place finish isn’t what has him scrambling to get another record deal—if Harry is a fan, then he _definitely_ knows that Louis is gay.

 

And from the way Harry is staring at Louis like he’s a pastry he’d like to nibble on, Louis decides he doesn’t much care. Harry might not be adverse to a bit of flirting, which really makes everything easier.

 

“Are you sure you’re not a model?” Louis asks cheekily, still gazing over at Harry. “You’re quite lovely.”

 

Harry blushes again—bashful eyes blazing hot. Louis has to stop himself from doing an actual fist pump at his luck. Like, not only is Harry insanely hot, he’s also adorable. It’s a killer combination.

 

“Not even a little,” Harry replies. “Just a baker, really.”

 

“A baker?” Louis raises a skeptical eyebrow. He was of the impression that this show was more about cooking versus baking. And if there’s anything he knows about less about than cooking, it’s probably baking.

 

“Pastry chef,” Harry corrects hastily. “Classically trained. But at heart, I guess I still think of myself as a baker. I want to open a bakery, anyway.”

  
“That’s why you’re here then, to get the money for your bakery?” Louis asks and Harry nods.

 

“So how about you, do you bake?” Harry asks.

 

It’s Louis’ turn to flush red. “Um, ah, not exactly.” He was really hoping someone else had already broken the news to poor Harry that Louis is not precisely knowledgeable in the kitchen.

 

“No cooking either, yeah?” Harry asks, and he doesn’t even seem slightly fazed by the possibility.

 

Basically, Harry Styles is a way better man— _chef_ , Louis reminds himself, _chef_ —than Louis deserves.

 

Louis shakes his head.

 

“Well, let’s get started then.” Harry shoots him a quick, bright smile that showcases his deep dimples. “Got a lot to cover today.”

 

“Lead the way, Harold!” Louis exclaims.

 

The kitchens are massive, giant stainless steel work tables criss-crossing the space, punctuated by a handful of enormous industrial stoves. There’s shelf upon shelf of kitchen equipment lining the walls. Louis is game for most things—he wouldn’t have done _The X-Factor_ in the first place if he weren’t willing to take a chance on himself—but this is all quite overwhelming. He doesn’t tend to go into things assuming he’ll fail, but well. _The X-Factor_ was different. He knew how to sing and how to work an audience and a camera. He doesn’t know how to cook _at all_. He can pour himself a bowl of cereal and make a mean cup of tea.

 

Sudden panic freezes him in place, but Harry’s behind him, laying a reassuring hand on his back.  It’s large and warm, and truthfully Louis doesn’t ever want him to move it, even as he hates the way it sends tiny frissons of electricity down his spine.

 

Flirting withstanding, Louis doesn’t really need this distraction right now. He needs to be able to focus so that Harry can teach him how to cook because he is suddenly quite certain that he’s completely out of his element.

 

But before Louis can even open his mouth, Harry’s in front of Louis, and his hand has moved from his back to his shoulder, pressing in comfortingly. “I know, it all looks scary,” he says, seriously. As if being afraid of a kitchen isn’t completely ridiculous.

 

“Terrifying, actually,” Louis says, a lot more quietly than usual. “Is this crazy? To think I could do this?”

 

Harry’s smile is as soft and warm as the hand on Louis’ body. It dawns over his beautiful face and somehow makes him even lovelier—inside and out, Louis realizes. He’s not just attractive, he’s also kind.

 

Basically, Louis is fucked.

 

“No, not crazy at all. And it’s not just you. I’m here to help—to teach you, really. We’re a team.” Harry sounds confident, but Louis is secretly worried that he’s blindly hoping at this point.

 

“The Dream Team,” Louis says with only a hint of sarcasm, because even if Harry _is_ blindly hoping Louis isn’t complete utter shite in the kitchen, he’s still made Louis believe that they aren’t hopeless. And that’s something.

 

Harry’s smile widens, that dimple looking awfully appetizing to Louis. Rather too appetizing. _Focus_ , Louis reminds himself, _focus_.

 

“So where do we start?” Louis asks. Because let’s face it, if he doesn’t get them back on track, he and Harry are going to end up making out in the pantry, and while probably really fun, that’s not going to get him another record deal.

 

Harry eyes Louis skeptically. “Maybe to start we’d better to go over the equipment.”

 

This seems really basic. Like embarrassingly basic. But maybe it’s better to do this now, in private, before Louis mortifies himself on air by having to ask how to turn the stove on.

 

“Lead away,” Louis tries to sound enthusiastic. But it’s hard to get enthusiastic about kitchen equipment, even when the man doing the teaching is Harry Styles.

 

As the morning wears on, they begin to grow more comfortable around each other. Louis realizes that Harry is as good of a teacher as he is devastatingly lovely. He never once makes fun of Louis for asking dumb questions—and Louis is sure he asks plenty of those—and he’s unfailingly patient as he not only shows Louis the equipment, he makes absolutely certain that Louis knows how to use it and what each item is for. It’s a bit of slow going, with Harry wanting to make absolutely sure Louis understands, and his own naturally slow pattern of speaking. Louis does a lot of things fast; Harry’s slow and deliberate. Louis wouldn’t think that combination would work very well, but instead of oil and water, they’re kind of brilliant together.

 

Harry is showing Louis how to use the stand mixer—“I use one of these every day,” Harry explains as he carefully changes out the mixing apparatus, a large whisk for a ceramic dough hook—when Louis asks him if he knows any of the other chefs they’ll be competing against.

 

“I went to culinary school with Niall Horan,” Harry says offhandedly, as if this is totally normal. Which to Harry, Louis is sure it is. Harry’s never been in reality television before. He doesn’t understand how the game works.

 

Louis grunts in frustration as he tries to maneuver the dough hook into the stainless steel bowl so he can attach it properly. When Harry did it, it was in a slow, but absolutely sure motion, and Louis can’t quite figure out how it goes.

 

“You’ve got it,” Harry says encouragingly, even though Louis knows he doesn’t at all. He rolls his eyes and goes back for another try.

 

“So you know him,” Louis states.

 

“Niall? We’re good friends, sure. I wasn’t sure about doing this show, but when I found out Niall had agreed, it was an easier decision.”

 

Louis barely refrains from rolling his eyes again. Harry is most definitely a kind soul; he also should be very lucky he has Louis as a partner. No, Louis can’t cook to save his life, but Louis is a reality television veteran. He can steer them away from any potential pitfalls and make sure the producers don’t eat them alive.

 

“Anybody else?” Louis asks. He finally gets the stupid hook into the stupid tiny hole and congratulates himself more on not saying anything sexual than actually accomplishing the task. When his hands have moved from the bowl, Harry reaches over and flips the mixer on.

 

Apparently Louis’ celebration was premature because the dough hook falls into the stainless bowl with a loud clatter.

 

“Shit.” Louis can’t help but curse at how bad he is at this. 

 

“You’ll get it. Better now than when we’re cooking and I need your help with the mixer and you can’t actually figure out how to use it,” Harry says sagely and Louis has never agreed more. He doesn’t exactly relish the notion of humiliating himself on television because he can’t work a stand mixer. It’s humiliating enough now.

 

It takes him five more minutes, but he finally gets the dough hook in.

 

“Didn’t think you’d have so much trouble getting it in the hole,” Harry says with a smirk and Louis can’t help but turn to him in mock outrage.

 

“Harold!” he shrieks. “I can’t even believe.”

 

Harry blushes, but he doesn’t look even the tiniest bit ashamed.

 

“Next time, I won’t take it so easy on you,” Louis vows.

 

“Wouldn’t want you to.” Harry says with a tiny giggle and wow, Louis doesn’t know how he’s going to make it through the next eight weeks if he can’t snog this beautiful man a little bit. Surely that’s allowed?

 

He’s going to have to wait til after today’s bootcamp is over to call Alberto and ask though, because even though Louis feels very nearly desperate, he’s a bit more desperate to stay in Harry’s lovely, soothing presence.

 

Of course that’s when Harry turns things up a notch.

 

“Let’s make lunch,” Harry says.

 

Louis loves to eat. He also is pretty intrigued at the concept of Harry putting things in his mouth. He’s only human, okay? And Harry’s mouth is so lovely—all wide and pink and plush. Louis wants to do sinful things to that mouth, only about a quarter of which involve food.

 

“You mean, you’re going to make us lunch?” Louis asks hopefully. He was rather hoping the equipment tour could continue. At least the equipment is mostly non-threatening—all except the food processor. In his humble, completely non-expert opinion, it’s a fucking terrifying piece of machinery designed more to process fingers than food.

 

Harry shakes his head. “ _We’re_ going to make lunch.”

 

Louis can’t help the wave of apprehension that spreads through him. “Rather,” Harry says with a bright smile, “I’ll make you lunch, and you can make me lunch.”

 

Harry clearly believes this is an inspired idea, but Louis thinks it’s just not fair. Whatever Harry makes is bound to be delicious. He’s a professional; this is what he does for a living. What Louis can make is probably not exactly edible.

 

“Are you sure?” Louis asks. He’s sure Harry can hear the dubious tone in his voice, but he doesn’t mention it and only nods excitedly in the affirmative.

 

“Why don’t we both do something simple, like a cheese toastie?” Harry asks.

 

Louis mentioned to Alberto more than once that a cheese toastie was the _one_ meal he feels even vaguely confident preparing. Somehow, he thinks Harry suggesting this isn’t a coincidence, but that’s fine. Louis doesn’t fancy poisoning such a lovely person the first day he ever meets them.

 

“I can do that,” Louis says.

 

“It’s settled then,” Harry says with another one of those dimpled grins that will probably make every single person aged eight to eighty fall in love with him. “Cheese toasties. Half an hour?”

 

“Thirty minutes?” Louis scoffs. “I don’t think it’ll take me thirty minutes.”

 

Harry just shrugs, a knowing smile on his face. “You’d be surprised.”

 

It’s never taken Louis that long to make a cheese toastie in his _life_ , but he agrees, mostly because there’s nothing wrong with having _too_ _much_ time.

 

They haven’t gone over where all the ingredients in the pantry are located, but unlike during the show, when they’ll get a measly sixty seconds to shop, there’s unlimited time today, so Louis spends quite a bit of time perusing the shelves. Like the kitchen equipment, there are quite a few things he doesn’t recognize.

 

After a good ten minutes, he finally emerges with bread and cheese and butter. Simple enough, but it still took him a decent amount of time to choose _which_ bread because of course they don’t have anything a simple as plain white bread, like the kind Louis buys at the market. And the cheese selection is as exotic as the one at the Tesco deli counter. He finally finds one that looks like a basic cheddar and picks it.

 

After that, it’s simple enough to slice the bread, though the wickedly sharp teeth on the bread knife scare him almost as much as the dreaded food processor. But he cuts carefully and slowly—maybe a bit too slowly though, because his bread slices end up looking a little like he’s already gnawed on them.

 

Louis gazes at them critically and wonders if he should try again, but he really doesn’t want to because that knife is bloody terrifying. He saw Harry cut through his bread earlier with confidence and precision, his slices looking as pristine as if they’d just come out of the bag.

 

Louis remembers seeing something about presentation and appearance counting when they’re judged, but this is just Harry. Besides, Louis reasons, Harry will make sure their bread doesn’t look like it’s already chewed when it matters.

 

The cheese is really, _really_ hard, and Louis struggles even more to slice that into even chunks. He typically buys the pre-sliced cheese in the store. The truth is he’s never actually cut cheese into slices before, which is a slightly embarrassing thing to admit, so he doesn’t. Just nods enthusiastically when Harry glances over, clearly watching him struggle with the knife, and asks him if he’s doing okay.

 

Because, let’s face it, if he can’t even make a cheese toastie in this kitchen—the _one_ thing he believes he can cook—he’s fucked. And not in the good way, either.

 

Finally, both the bread and cheese are sliced and Louis gets the pan heated and his sandwich is cooking and he can take a breath of relief.

 

Of course, then he gets distracted by Harry, who’s over at his station, looking like he’s adding all these glorious flourishes and garnishes and whatever he’s making must be practically a masterpiece—then Louis glances over at his pan and realizes the edges of his toastie are looking well, a bit more _toasted_ than he intended.

 

But that’s okay still. He can scrape those bits off. It’s nothing he hasn’t done before, Louis tells himself, hating that cooking in this kitchen has made him break a bit more than a sweat. He just _so_ wanted to serve something decent and not burned around the edges.

 

Harry is such a good person. At the end of what feels like the longest thirty minutes of Louis’ life, he presents his plate rather sheepishly towards Harry and all Harry does is smile enthusiastically.

 

“A true Tomlinson original!” Harry exclaims with real joy and Louis is rather incredulous. His sandwich looks like a nightmare compared to Harry’s, which is two flawless triangles, balanced one on top of the other, their surfaces a beautifully even color, their edges crisp and not even a little burned.

 

When he takes a hesitant bite, almost afraid to mar the perfection that Harry’s created, he moans a little. “This is so good,” he can’t help but say through a mouthful of the most flawlessly-paired cheese and bread. The cheese Harry selected was a white cheddar and he’s laid a bit of fruit preserves on the bread—not something that Louis _ever_ have even thought of, nevermind attempted, but it adds a perfect note of sweetness to balance out the sharpness of the cheese.

 

It’s a delicious sandwich, and Louis can’t even bring himself to look over at Harry as he finishes it off embarrassingly quick. He’s afraid of what Harry’s face will say when he gets close enough to take in the rough edges of the bread and the burned edges that Louis couldn’t quite scrape off.

 

“That was really delicious,” Louis says as he takes his plate over to the sink. He can’t face Harry. If he can’t do this, then he really can’t do anything, and he just _knows_ what Harry is going to say. That he’s going to have to find a different, less culinary-stunted partner.

 

“Louis,” Harry says, and he’s so close that Louis almost drops his plate into the sink. “It’s okay. It tasted absolutely fine. I liked it a lot.”

 

Louis laughs a little bitterly. “Just bread and cheese, yeah?” And he fucked even that up.

 

There’s that hand again, reassuring and big and so warm, on the small of his back. “You’re not _meant_ to be a good cook, you know? You’re not meant to be good yet. We can change that. We’re _supposed_ to change that.”

 

Louis’ fingers curl around the edge of the plate and he grips it like a lifeline. “I think I’m rather hopeless, unfortunately.”

 

“Not even close,” Harry says and it sounds like a vow. “I swear. I wouldn’t lie to you. You picked a really nice sourdough and the right cheese to set it off. There were a few . . .execution problems. But most of those were the unfamiliar equipment I think. And you _tried_. Do you think every single of these celebrities is going to try?”

 

Louis has wondered that himself. “Probably not.”

 

Harry’s hands fall gently to his waist and it’s almost shocking how big they are in comparison. Louis doesn’t usually feel tiny—he _knows_ he’s smaller than average—but Harry feels huge somehow. Harry tugs him around and Louis’ breath stutters a bit at how close Harry is.

 

His eyes are so green and so near and all Louis would have to is reach up on his tiptoes a bit and he could press his lips to Harry’s. The knowledge simmers through him and Louis can see the precise moment Harry has the same thought—his eyes darken just a shade, from the new green of a leaf to the shade of grass in the shade at the height of summer. And Louis knows without question that Harry wants him.

 

When Harry pulls away a second later, murmuring about washing up and then finishing up with the equipment this afternoon, everything is the same between them, and yet it’s all different. They didn’t kiss, but Louis knows it’s inevitable now. There’s heat lying between them, and he personally knows he isn’t much for self-control.

 

The afternoon passes much like the morning, with Harry carefully and completely going over the rest of the equipment. Louis is taken aback by some of the more exotic items, like the anti-griddle and the ice cream machine.

 

“You don’t actually expect me to use these, right?” he asks, crossing his arms across his chest. Harry doesn’t seem particularly dumb, but he’s showing Louis the controls of the anti-griddle like Louis might actually have to use the thing. And Louis can’t even make a cheese toastie.

 

“I have no idea what we’re really in for,” Harry admits. “I know we’re going to need both of us if we want to have a chance of moving on each week. So yeah, you might have to use it, if I’m busy doing something else.”

 

“You want to be as prepared as possible,” Louis says, suddenly admiring how shrewd Harry is, underneath the curls and the sparkly eyes and those frankly ridiculous clothes.

 

“I don’t want to have any regrets.”

 

Louis understands all too well about regrets. “Should’ve kissed me, then,” Louis says brazenly, because he might as well allude to the incident that’s been haunting him all afternoon.

 

He knows he’ll get another chance and this time, Harry might not pull away but Louis can’t remember the last time he wanted someone this much. He can practically taste Harry’s lips on his and the anticipation is sweet and hot in his blood.

  
Harry blushes. “Am I so obvious?” he asks, as if obvious is _bad_.

 

“It’s wonderful,” Louis soothes. “I like it.”

 

“You’re just . . . .just . . .so bloody pretty up close,” Harry admits with bright red cheeks flaming bright.

 

“Thank you.” Louis can’t help but preen a little. “The feeling is most certainly mutual.”

 

At that, Harry’s grin turns a little knowing. “The best news I’ve heard all day.”

 

After the anti-griddle and their enlightening conversation, they move onto the deep fryer. Louis finds it only slightly less horrifying than the food processor.

 

“Why is everything so dangerous?” he pouts.

 

Harry looks genuinely mystified. “If you’re careful, it’s not, really.”

 

“It’s literally _boiling oil_ ,” Louis points out.

 

But Harry just shrugs. “Well, let’s hope we don’t have to deep fry anything.”

 

This is Britain. The chances of them _not_ deep frying something are slim to none. But Louis keeps his trap closed and they move on.

 

At four, they call it quits for the day. Louis has zero qualms about asking for Harry’s number—after he’s been flirting rather shamelessly all day—and immediately enters it into his phone, sending Harry a quick text of a banana, which he’d discovered during the day was Harry’s favorite fruit.

 

“I’m going to call you Bananas from now on,” Louis insists and Harry flushes.

 

“Not the worst thing I’ve ever been called,” Harry has to admit.

 

“What _is_ the worst thing?” Louis asks, horribly curious.

 

“I think an ex-boyfriend called me a twat once. Or maybe that was one of my ex-girlfriends.” Harry shrugs, and Louis thinks he’s gotten off pretty easy over the years.

 

“Girlfriends _and_ boyfriends, then,” Louis says as casually as he can.

 

“I’m more pansexual than bisexual,” Harry admits.

 

Louis holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Hardly one to judge here.”

 

“What you did was really brave,” Harry says and that note of hero-worship is back in his voice. Louis thought he’d like it but he really doesn’t. At least not because of this.

 

“I guess,” Louis says with a shrug. “Or really stupid. Depending on who you talk to.”

 

“Well I think it was brave,” Harry staunchly defends.

 

“I like you, Bananas,” Louis says, slinging an arm around him and tugging him close against him for a brief second. Only a brief second because any more and they _are_ going to end up making out in the pantry.

 

“The feeling is most certainly mutual,” Harry retorts with a dimpled smile.

 

“Burned cheese toasties and all.”

 

“It was only a little burned,” Harry is quick to add. “A very tiny bit.”

 

“In my defense,” Louis says, shrugging his jacket on, “you’re a very distracting person.”

 

“Tomorrow, same time?” Harry asks, not even acknowledging how insanely distracting he is, which—Louis kind of loves that and hates that about him.

 

“Sure.” Louis would get up even earlier to hang out more with Harry Styles. Which after one day might be a little pathetic and a bit sad, but he’s not complaining. Harry is extraordinary and Louis feels like he’s already in deep and they haven’t even kissed yet.

 

“We’ll work on your knife skills,” Harry promises. “It’ll be fun.”

 

Knife skills sound even less fun than kitchen equipment, but today was awesome so Louis doesn’t complain. Besides, this is all stuff he needs to know.

 

“Maybe if I do well, I can get a reward.” Louis knows he’s transparent as hell. He doesn’t even care.

 

Harry smirks. “I don’t know, Tomlinson. Maybe we should be practicing patience instead.”

 

“Patience is for losers, Bananas.”

 

Harry just shakes his head, but he’s laughing so Louis will take that as a win and also as a maybe.

 

“Tomorrow, then.”

 

\---

 

After a restless night of half-lucid, hot dreams that all feature a certain green-eyed baker, Louis gets up early and spends more time than he even did on his cheese toastie fussing over his hair in the mirror.

 

He’s not really proud of how vain he is, but when Louis has a crush, well, he has a _crush_. And this one on Harry has hit him hard and fast and part of that is the fact that he’s almost certain it’s mutual.

 

All the other parts may be how gorgeous Harry is, and how supportive and kind and funny too, with a sly sense of humor that seems to match right up with Louis’ own. But mostly Louis thinks his crush is nearly unmanageable already because the air practically vibrates with electricity when the two of them are in the room together.

 

He’d called Alberto on the car ride home, and Alberto had texted him back an update on the contract not even an hour later. Maybe Louis slightly exaggerated how charming the world is going to find the two of them together—or maybe not. Only time will tell, but Alberto was pleased with the news that he likes Harry. A little less pleased perhaps that Louis _likes_ Harry, but Alberto reports that it’s technically not against the contract for Louis to push Harry against the nearest counter and snog him until their lips fall off.

 

It’s the best news Louis has heard in a long, long time.

 

Of course there’s a second text that advises Louis to at least _try_ to keep it in his pants, but he just plain ignores that one.

 

He wears his tightest pair of skinny jeans and a t-shirt that he hopes shows off both his biceps and his tattoos. He’s pleasantly surprised with the results when Harry practically trips on air when Louis walks into the room.

 

Really, the only downside is that Harry’s carrying a whole bunch of knives.

 

“Louis,” Harry admonishes, but with a feisty twinkle in his eyes, “please try not to distract me when I’m transporting really sharp objects.” He sets the knives down on a huge wooden cutting board, safe in the end and lets out a quick sigh of relief that he’s escaped unscathed.

 

“Distracting?” Louis wonders out loud, all creamy innocence, as he practically strikes a pose in the doorway. “What on earth could you be referring to, Bananas?”

 

Harry giggles. “I want to hate that nickname, I really do.”

 

“But you don’t.”

 

Harry shakes his head, ringlets flying. “Nope. Just gotta come up with a good one for you.”

 

“Brilliance takes time,” Louis orates. In another life, he might have been an actor. He loved drama in school and he’s got the flair for it, but in this lifetime, he’s just a singer. Something he should be remembering right about now, except his brain is about 90% Harry Styles and 10% singing career.

 

Louis takes a sip of his tea, trying to regroup and refocus. “So why were you hefting those dangerous objects around the kitchen anyway?”

 

Harry levels him a frank stare. “The state of your bread yesterday.”

 

“Oh.” Louis really wanted to forget that part.

 

“Oh is right,” Harry says, but it’s still kind. Louis doesn’t think Harry could be unkind even if he wanted to be. He’s got such nice eyes. “We’re going to work on your knife skills today.”

 

Honestly, Louis was expecting _more_ , he guesses, from the morning. He was expecting maybe a hug, or some more casual touching, but Harry’s just a touch more stiffly professional today—okay, he wasn’t stiffly professional _at all_ yesterday, but now he seems to have found some distance and it makes Louis want to whip out his phone and wave around that text from Alberto that says there’s absolutely nothing in their contracts about snogging their partners.

 

A year ago, he might have actually done it. But after the last situation where he jumped first and looked later came back to bite him in the ass, he finds he’s become a little hesitant.

 

Maybe Harry is just really flirty.

 

So what happens is that Louis tries really hard at first, listening intently to Harry’s instructions on how he should be slicing the vegetables that he’s set out in front of him. But as the morning drags on and Louis’ concentration isn’t rewarded with anything other than Harry’s genuine-but-still-polite smile, he kind of starts to slack.

 

Louis isn’t aware that Harry even notices because his tone of voice and demeanor don’t change at all. But then they break for lunch—today, Harry doesn’t even suggest any kind of food competition. He just whips up a big calzone and makes it look dizzyingly easy in the process.

 

When they’re finished eating, Harry pins Louis with a very firm look. “Why aren’t you trying?” he asks.

 

“It’s boring,” Louis whines, which is part of the problem. The other part is, of course, that it _is_ rather boring to work on knife skills if Harry won’t flirt with him properly. Part of why yesterday was so fun from start to finish was the effervescence in his veins every time Harry stared, blushed, laughed, or was in general blown away by Louis’ presence.

 

“It’s not going to be boring when we’re on air and you’re trying to chop vegetables and you can’t manage,” Harry reminds him, still nicely, but it’s definitely one of the harsher things that Harry’s ever said to him. Louis is a tough person generally. He was able to make it through _The X-Factor_ and brush off nearly every one of Simon Cowell’s little nasty gems. For some reason, this one single comment of Harry’s, still nicely worded and delivered with a hint of dimple, gets him.

 

Louis grimaces. He’s hopeless when he has a crush, okay? And he definitely has a crush on Harry, though three hours into their session Louis can’t help but wonder if he read the situation all wrong yesterday.

 

“Here,” Harry sighs, “let’s see if we can’t get somewhere. We only have an hour or so before everyone else is meeting here to go over some basic rules.”

 

“Everyone is showing up today?” Louis squeaks. He’s not even done any proper research yet. Alberto had sent over some information packets on the celebrities and their chefs two days ago, but last night Louis was far too busy melting down over Harry’s insane hotness to possibly _read._

Harry shoots him a strange look. “Don’t you ever read your email?”

 

“Yes,” Louis retorts. “All the time.”

 

Harry’s face softens. “Let me guess. Only when it’s not boring.”

 

Louis would be offended by how easily Harry has read him, but it’s pretty true so . . .

 

“Pick up the knife,” Harry continues before Louis can interject and probably get them off on another long tangent that has everything to do with flirting and almost nothing with knife skills.

 

Louis could argue. But for once, he doesn’t. He picks up the knife. It’s what Harry called a “chef’s knife,” earlier—a medium-ish size with a delicately and wickedly sharp curved blade.

 

Harry moves behind him. _Close_ behind him. Every molecule of Louis’ body perks up in interest.

 

“You’re gripping it far too tightly,” Harry says quietly, air tickling the hairs that brush Louis’ neck. “ _Relax_.”

 

Louis wants to tell him that it’s a little hard to relax when Harry’s practically humping him against the prep counter. He might have yesterday, in a teasing lilting voice—but today, he keeps quiet and tries to do what Harry says.

 

“Now, the carrot,” Harry directs. “One inch slices. Go as slowly as you need to. Remember the rocking motion.”

 

Louis does remember the rocking motion. They’d practiced it without even chopping anything. But when there’s an actual physical vegetable under his blade, the feel is totally different and he can’t quite get it right.

 

“Slowly, _slowly_ ,” Harry says firmly but gently. When Louis still doesn’t go slowly enough for him, he reaches his arms around Louis, neatly caging him in.

 

Breath stutters out of Louis’ lungs. He’s barely composed enough as it is, but Harry invading his personal bubble like it doesn’t even exist is both the best and the worst thing that’s ever happened to him.

 

“Slowly,” Harry repeats, and the words churn sluggishly through Louis’ brain. It’s on a Harry overload right now. The way he feels all around Louis, his muscular arms and torso boxing him in, making Louis feel a bit smothered, but in all the best ways—protected and worshipped and beloved and _wanted_ so damn much. The intoxicating smell of Harry. Lemons and coconuts and a tiny hint of mint and rosemary. Louis wants to flip their bodies and push him back against the counter and eat him whole.

 

Harry’s so big and hot he causes the strangest reaction in Louis. His heart is beating so quick, it practically flutters like a hummingbird in his chest. But Harry’s also so warm that he relaxes Louis right down.

 

It’s the oddest combination, but Louis wouldn’t trade it for anything. He never wants Harry to move.

 

Harry’s hands skim over Louis’ and finally come to rest on them. “Just relax,” Harry practically murmurs and Louis can feel the heat of Harry’s breath on the shell of his ear and it’s suddenly too much. His knees wobble a bit and nearly threaten to give out. His cock has fattened right up in his trousers and he wants Harry to kiss him so much he can barely breathe.

 

They begin to move together in unison, moving the knife as one instead of as two.

 

Louis has been told countless times that he marches to the beat of his own drum. He knows he’s a bit odd and more than a little quirky, but he’s always enjoyed that he understands and does things differently than the rest of the world. He’s dated lots and lots of boys and even a handful of girls, but he’s never met anyone he ever truly gelled with.

 

But Harry—Harry is different. A _different_ different than Louis, but somehow instead of pushing them farther apart, their differences just emphasize how good they are together, and it feels natural as breathing to move together.

 

Louis feels a bit faint when he realizes how good their sex life could be if they’re _this_ attuned to one another and they’ve literally known each other for less than two days.

 

“That’s it,” Harry murmurs encouragingly. “Just like that.”

 

Louis has never wanted to drop the knife more and forget all about this cooking show. He knows to some extent his future career is riding on how well this gamble pays off. According to Alberto, he just needs to stay on the show as long as he can. He doesn’t even need to win. But to stay, he’s going to need to do these things.

 

The part of him that wants nothing but Harry, which is pretty nuts because he’s _just_ met Harry, wars with the part of him that truly wants a career again. Wants to sing and have people listen.

 

Then Harry’s head dips closer and out of nowhere, as their knife slices cleanly and perfectly through a carrot, Harry’s lips brush the nape of Louis’ neck. “Perfect,” Harry says so softly that Louis can barely hear the words over the roaring in his ears.

 

And suddenly it becomes very clear. Louis wants both. He wants both, not equally maybe, but enough that he knows he needs to focus on this right now and pray the rest falls into place.

 

There’s a rhythm in Harry’s movements, Louis realizes quickly as soon as he truly focuses on the strokes of the knife. They sync up quite nicely with Harry’s breathing, which has somehow become Louis’ breathing pattern as well. Big surprise.

 

So it’s relatively easy to keep moving the knife to that same rhythm, with the same rolling motion that Harry so painstakingly tried to ingrain in him hours earlier.

 

Louis chops carrot after carrot, and then they move onto potatoes, which aren’t nearly as fun as carrots, but even though it _is_ a little boring, Louis focuses anyway.

 

And Louis can see in the slow, warm smile Harry has on his face the entire time that he’s relieved that Louis has managed to figure out not only how to chop a carrot, but how to balance this.

 

Who is he kidding? _Louis_ is glad.

 

When they pack up the knives, preparing the space for the rest of the contestants to stop by, Harry leans in, those plump pink lips distractingly close to Louis’. “Thank you,” Harry says.

 

“For what?”

 

Harry shrugs. “I know today kinda sucked. But thanks for sticking with it anyway. Just . . .” Harry hesitates, and Louis can practically see the wheels in his head turning, as he tries to figure out how much and what to say, “just this competition means a lot to me. The potential of getting my own bakery.”

 

Louis feels a bit of guilt wash over him. He forgets sometimes how self-focused the world surrounding him can be, and how he can be just as awful as every other celebrity.

 

“I want you to have that,” Louis says. “I really do. I know that seems crazy. We just met . . .” He doesn’t want to say how strange it is to have a crush on someone you don’t even know, but it’s the truth.

 

_Fuck it_ , Louis thinks, _he knows anyway._

“Honestly, I wasn’t expecting to like you this much,” Harry admits in a rush before Louis can even get the words out.

 

Huh. Well it’s good they’re on the same page. “Me either,” Louis confides and loves how the smile blooms on Harry’s face, his cheeks growing pinker. “I got a bit carried away with it all. I’m sorry. But I’m good now.”

 

Harry’s cheeks grow a deeper pink; it’s insanely endearing. “I did too,” Harry confesses. “I just hid it better. I don’t want to get too distracted by it. But it is rather distracting.” His eyes rove up and down Louis’ form. “ _Very_ distracting, if I’m being honest.”

 

“We’ll just have to focus, Bananas,” Louis declares. “Because you need your bakery and well, I need a career.”

 

Harry looks positively affronted. “You _have_ a career! You’re Louis Tomlinson!” Harry is possibly the most loyal creature on this planet; Louis didn’t think he could be even more endeared. He was wrong.

 

“Some career advice, young Harold,” Louis pontificates dramatically because this particular part of his confession is a bitter pill to swallow and it’s hard to say straight on, especially to someone like Harry, “don’t come out of the closet before all the pretty young girls fall out of love with you. It’s apparently not good for business.”

 

Louis should have known better. The sympathy—or maybe it’s empathy, Louis isn’t quite sure, only that it’s currently tearing a hole in his heart—in Harry’s eyes is devastating. “I didn’t realize,” he says slowly.

 

There’s not much else to say except to shrug. “It is what it is,” Louis explains. “So basically, I need this too. Probably just as much as you do.”

 

The commiserating smile they share warms Louis up from the inside out. “Then we’ll just have to win,” Harry declares rather recklessly. Louis hasn’t even checked out the competition yet.

 

A loud, obnoxious whistle pierces his ears and he glances up in surprise.

 

There’s a short blond man in the doorway, slender, with a cheeky smile. “Styles, what the hell is this?” the man asks in a thick Irish accent. “I leave you alone for _two whole days_ and you’re charming everyone.”

 

Louis stiffens. Is Harry like this with _everyone_? Who is this guy?

 

“Nialler!” Harry exclaims, and Louis realizes that the Irishman is Harry’s friend Niall. The grill expert, or so Harry had explained.

 

“He’s so brilliant,” Harry had said with a proud smile.

 

“I certainly hope he’s not _too_ brilliant,” Louis had muttered, only to have Harry nudge him with a shoulder.

 

“Be nice,” Harry said.

 

Louis reminds himself of the same thing now. Niall is Harry’s friend and Louis needs all the help he can get to make sure he doesn’t end up with nothing—no career _and_ no Harry.

 

Then Niall looks past Harry and starts laughing so hard he nearly falls over. Louis doesn’t quite understand. Does he have something in his hair? On his face? Oh _god_. Here he was, thinking that the last hour was maybe one of the hottest of his life, all while he’s had something disgusting on him that Harry could barely tolerate. Louis is going to have to move. To Antarctica.

 

“You’re Louis Tomlinson,” Niall barely manages to get out between gasps. Louis doesn’t quite understand. His name has never before resulted in such mirth.

 

“That’s me?”

 

Harry is glaring at Niall now, no longer quite so overjoyed to see his friend.

 

“Oh my god,” Niall gasps out, “you don’t even _know_.”

 

But Louis never gets to find out what he doesn’t even know, because suddenly there’s a girl at the door behind Niall. She’s slim but muscular, with long brown hair and a sweet face. Louis knows he’s seen her face someplace but for the life of him, he can’t place her.

 

“And who might this be?” Harry asks archly, and Louis thinks maybe he’s trying to change the subject, but then the reason why the girl looks so familiar becomes apparent.

 

“This is _Melissa Whitelaw_ ,” Niall hisses, like she’s not right in front of him.

 

Oh. _Oh_. Louis has to compete against an Olympic gold medalist swimmer? That’s just great. “Big fan,” Harry tells her with a smile and they shake hands and she turns to Louis, a bashful smile spreading over her delicate features.

 

“Not a little intimidated or anything,” she says. “Louis Tomlinson. Wow. You are _so_ pretty in person.”

 

Louis blushes. He’s heard it before, but it doesn’t get any less awkward. He never knows what to say, other than a simple _thank you_. But before he can really get that out, Harry speaks up. “He really is, isn’t he?” Harry muses out loud.

 

Before Louis can register Harry’s cheeky smile or even conceptualize how to answer _that_ —there’s more people filing in the door, and for a minute or two there’s quite a bit of chaos as everyone meets and greets. But more importantly, sizes up their competition.

 

Louis hangs behind a bit, with Harry next to him, and wishes he’d spent last night studying the contestant packets instead of daydreaming about Harry and their future wedding and kids and white picket-fenced home.

 

Harry leans over every few moments, murmuring into Louis’ ear who each of the chefs are, and what their strength and weaknesses are.

 

Louis tries to catalog and observe.

 

There’s Niall, of course. He’s some sort of British grilling expert, who insists anything worth eating can be made outdoors. Louis has the utmost respect for anyone who chooses to cook for a living, but that’s just craziness.

 

Next, Harry points out Liam Payne, who’s somewhat of a health junkie/nutritionist type. Harry exclaims, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically into Louis’ ear, that Liam’s rumored to have _never_ cooked with butter. Ever in his entire life. He’s paired with Zayn Malik, who probably could be a model, but instead has become rather famous adapting comic books to movie scripts. He’s worked on the last few Marvel movies, and is rumored to be moving over to DC for their new _Suicide Squad_ film. Louis decides Zayn is by _far_ the most interesting of the pair. In fact, a bit of a comic book geek himself, Louis has been wanting to meet him for _years_.

 

There’s a bit of reverence in Harry’s voice as he talks about Barbara Palvin, who’s apparently the pastry chef for one of the Michelin starred restaurants in London. She looks scarily focused and like she couldn’t crack a smile if her life depended on it. Louis knows her partner, Eleanor Calder, who started as a ballerina and then moved into modeling. They’ve done a few shoots together, when he was still relevant. He’s also never seen her eat, so he’s rather surprised to see her voluntarily on a cooking reality TV show.

 

There’s Ben Winston, who Louis wouldn’t really call a _chef_ , necessarily, because he hosts an expose type program that identifies and ridicules bad restaurants in the UK. Louis feels sorry for his partner, Perrie, who is another _X-Factor_ alumni, albeit one who seemed to struggle even more than Louis had in the beginning. He’s not at all surprised to see her here. She’s definitely talented, but she needs something to set her apart. Unfortunately being paired with Ben was rather horrible luck and Louis sends her a sympathetic little smile. She’s going to need it.

 

Harry, who seems to have studied the information packet far more than Louis—basically _at all_ —hasn’t met Tom Atkin, a rather prominent mixologist in London, and Louis hasn’t met his partner either, Louise Teasdale, a celebrity hairstylist.

 

Louis has eaten in Paul Higgins’ restaurants loads of times, and finds the food adequate enough, but he knows that Paul is hardly there cooking in every one of them each night. He looks like he’s far more comfortable in an office than a kitchen. Louis senses blood in the water and files that bit of info away to use later. His partner, James Cordon, is also someone Louis knows—a late night TV host—and Louis can’t help but feel a little bad that another of his acquaintances has been paired with chefs who look like they might not go far in the competition.

 

Then Louis remembers that he’s here for his own career _and_ for Harry’s bakery. That means sticking around and being _glad_ that he knows James can’t cook either and that he won’t be able to save Paul Higgins’ ass.

 

“Do you know him?” Louis nudges Harry subtly, towards the giant man standing in the middle of the room with up and coming fashion designer Sophia Smith. “He doesn’t look familiar to me at all.”

 

Harry frowns. “I think he’s the one who runs a bed and breakfast in Ireland. Like major tourist destination, booked for years in advance type of thing.”

 

“Sounds awfully boring,” Louis sniffs. “If I’m going to go on holiday, I want somewhere sunny and warm where I can lie on the beach and tan for hours. With a never-ending parade of frosty drinks.”

 

Louis would have to be blind to miss Harry’s very fond look. He wonders what everyone thinks of _them_ —the semi-washed up, very gay pop star and the baker who doesn’t have a bakery. He wonders if everyone is already counting them out.

 

“I really like those little colorful umbrellas,” Harry confesses in a whisper and Louis can’t help but giggle helplessly. Why is Harry so damn cute?

 

“Can we help you, Mr. Tomlinson?” a voice in front of the room asks and Louis’ head snaps up. It’s Alton Brown and he doesn’t look very pleased that Louis was giggling with Harry instead of paying attention. It’s like grade school and he’s being reprimanded again for pulling Sally’s pigtails.

 

 

If he cares at all about his career or about getting Harry a bakery, he’s gonna have to lock down his focus and pay better attention.

 

“Sorry,” Louis answers with a lopsided smile. “We’re all good.”

 

Alton gives a sharp, serious nod in acknowledgement and continues his explanation of the rules.

 

There are seven weeks of competition. One pair is eliminated each week. Each week, each pair is to make one dish inspired by the theme of the week.

 

Louis is thinking to himself this seems kind of ridiculously straight forward when Alton pauses and suddenly there’s a mischievous smile blooms on his face and a feeling of dread settles deep and low in Louis’ gut. He _recognizes_ that smile. _He_ makes that smile when he’s about to seriously fuck someone over and enjoy every second of it.

 

Alton explains further that each team will start with $25,000 in cash. There’s a few enthusiastic whoops. Louis stays silent because he has a feeling they won’t be _keeping_ that kind of money. No, the money has some other purpose—probably something nefarious and awful and he almost wants to tell Alton he can have it.

 

Louis is right. While there is an overall “challenge” each week, there are also several challenges that teams can bid on to “gift” to other teams. Louis feels faint and also like he could use some clarification. “So like, to sabotage each other,” Louis states.

 

Alton looks like a cat who’s just got into the cream. “Exactly.”

 

There’s buzzing in the room as the various competitors freak out a little. Louis definitely isn’t calm either. His cooking skills are negligible. That alone was going to make winning difficult. Add in more complications and suddenly winning looks impossible.

 

But then someone has to win, right? Louis reminds himself. There _has_ to be a winner. And why shouldn’t it be him and Harry?

 

\---

 

Filming starts in a few days and two days after their meeting, Louis meets Harry for a beer at a local pub to go over strategy for their first challenge. They’ve been texting rather nonstop, but Louis is missing Harry. The jewel-like clarity of Harry’s green eyes and the softness of his smile, specifically, but he doesn’t need to admit that. He decides that going over strategy is a perfectly viable reason to meet up.

 

Or at least that’s what Louis keeps telling himself as he sits in the booth and waits for Harry to show up.

 

Finally, Harry slides in across from Louis. “This was such a good idea,” he says with a dimpled grin. “I was missing you, darling.”

 

Louis didn’t even know he was anxious, but Harry’s words calm him right down. Harry wants to see him just as much as he wants to see Harry.

 

Louis slides the pint he ordered for Harry across the worn wooden surface of the table. “I missed you more,” he retorts impudently.

 

Harry takes a sip of his pint. “You excited about filming?”

 

Shrugging, Louis scratches the tabletop with a fingernail. “More terrified than excited, to be honest,” he admits.

  
Harry’s face goes soft. “It’ll be fine. I think that we’re going to fly right under everyone’s radar during the first challenge. The most obvious teams to go after will be the ones that look strong. Probably Barbara and Eleanor. Or Liam and Zayn.”

 

Louis knows he’s made an entire career out of being the underdog, so he’s good with this. Sometimes it’s better to not be too aggressive right out of the gate.

 

“I think Niall and Melissa too. She probably cooks for herself. All those athlete types do. Who do you think the weakest links are?” Louis already has an idea but he wants to see if Harry’s on the same page.

 

Harry frowns. “It’s okay,” Louis tells him with a reassuring smile. “It’s inevitable. There’s going to be weaker teams. It’s just good to know who they are going in.”

 

“Well, I’d probably say Tom Atkin and Louise Teasdale,” Harry says slowly. “He _does_ cook, obviously, but he’s mainly into mixing drinks these last few years. He might be out of practice. And she looks a bit, well, um, flighty?”

 

Louis’ own analysis was a lot more cutthroat than that, but it’s okay. Harry’s going to cook well enough to keep them in the game and Louis is going to manipulate the game so they win.

 

“That was my thought too. He’s out of practice in the kitchen. Also, Paul Higgins.”

 

Harry shakes his head right away. “No, he’s going to be tough competition.”

 

Louis raises an eyebrow. “He runs that chain of restaurants. I’m betting he doesn’t spend much time in the kitchen.”

 

“He actually teaches at one of the most prestigious cooking schools in London,” Harry says. “I had a few classes with him.”

 

Well. Shit.

 

“And he’s good?” Louis thinks he already knows the answer, but when Harry nods enthusiastically, Louis thinks it’s definitely time for them to have this conversation.

 

“Listen,” he says seriously, leaning forward and looking right into those spectacular eyes of Harry’s. “I know you know Niall and you’re friends. And you know Paul Higgins too. And you practically hero-worship Barbara Palvin. But you’ve got to forget about all that. This is serious. This is for your bakery.”

 

A crease appears between Harry’s brows. “You don’t think I can be tough enough?”

 

“I think you’re plenty tough, Bananas,” Louis corrects gently. “I worry about you being ruthless enough.”

 

The cloud lifts off Harry’s face. “That’s what I’ve got you for, though.”

 

“Yeah, but just like I have to learn how to cook, sometimes I might not be available to be cutthroat,” Louis explains softly. “We have to learn from each other. I think that might be the key to winning this.”

 

There’s a definite glint of _something_ in Harry’s eyes as he gazes over at Louis. “Then we’ll be the greatest team ever. The Dream Team.”

 

Louis smiles. “The Dream Team. You _were_ paying attention.”

 

Harry just shoots him a look like he’s crazy.

 

“I mean, I said that on our first day,” Louis explains. Maybe Harry doesn’t remember.

 

“I know, I most definitely remember that,” Harry says. “It’s funny though, pretty much that entire day feels like a dream, from the moment you walked in, until we left that night. But I remember everything you said. In explicit detail.”

 

Louis doesn’t know whether to be pleased or embarrassed. Maybe both. He definitely is pleased at the _explicit_ part. Like will almost definitely have one hand around his cock later as he be relives the sly curve of Harry’s lips as he says that particular word.

 

Harry leans forward a little. His eyes are gleaming in the dim light of the pub, teasing and just the tiniest bit sly. Louis begins to sweat and simultaneously wonder if his first kiss with Harry Styles is going to take place in this rather dingy pub around the corner from his flat.

 

His lips are dry and parched. He reaches for his pint, only to discover it’s empty.

 

“Another round?”

 

Louis lets out an exasperated sigh. “You’re a bad influence.”

 

“Only one more round though, or else I’m afraid I’ll do something I don’t quite regret,” Harry teases as he slides out of the booth.

 

“Someday, Styles,” Louis calls as he walks away, “you’re gonna have to make good on those threats.”

 

Harry glances back, and there’s pure sexual wickedness in his look. Louis shudders a little, his cock throbbing in his trousers, every hair on his body raising to sympathetic attention.

 

As they drink their second round, their banter grows further charged, the air thickening between them, and Louis revises his theory that his first kiss might take place inside the pub.

 

It’s totally going to take place outside of this quite dingy pub around the corner of his flat—Louis is absolutely certain of it. Harry’s gaze seems permanently stuck on Louis’ face. On his lips.

 

When they shrug their coats on and head outside into the cool evening air, Louis’ blood is humming with anticipation. Harry calls for a cab and Louis stands there waiting with him—waiting for _far_ more than that, if he’s being really honest.

 

“You’re working tomorrow?” Louis asks. He’s typically a lot smoother than this, but something about Harry makes him nervous. Like this might be the last time he’s ever faced with the possibility of a first kiss. It makes his palms sweat, so he stuffs his hands in his pockets and tries to look chill and relaxed, kind of like how Harry looks.

 

“Yep.” Harry is a saint and doesn’t even point out that he’s _already_ said this.

 

Louis knows their time window is closing quickly, and Harry’s not taken a step towards him yet. Louis shifts his weight from one foot to another. He’s normally really against making the first move, but maybe desperate times call for desperate measures.

 

Later, he’ll think that everything happened so quickly, but it probably didn’t. Louis is just a chicken shit.

 

The cab pulls up, and Harry takes a step and then another and gathers Louis into his arms, giving him a firm, not-very-quick (especially considering the cab is just idling there) hug. While their arms are still intertwined, Harry leans down and brushes a sweet, soft kiss against the top of Louis’ head.

 

“See you later, Lou,” Harry says, and before Louis can react, can snatch his arms—and lips—back, he’s sliding into the back of the cab and Louis is pathetically and forlornly staring at the cab’s departing lights.

 

He pouts during the entire walk home until he collapses on his sofa and pulls his phone out.

 

There’s a single text from Harry. **Waiting will make it all the sweeter, don’t you think?**

Louis lets out a grumbled expletive. Harry’s not wrong, he’s really not. But that doesn’t mean Louis likes waiting.

 

He leaves Harry waiting for exactly three minutes. He was going to wait five, but he couldn’t quite manage it. Then he texts him back.

 

**You’re plenty sweet enough, Bananas.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr post, reblog if you so desire!](http://bethaboolou.tumblr.com/post/127675146185/taste-on-my-tongue-by-bethaboo-110-10880)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my wonderful betas [Sus](http://lululawrence.tumblr.com/) and [Clare](http://bearmustard.tumblr.com/) and thanks to everyone who read and recced this last chapter!
> 
> a note about timing: I want to update this every two weeks, but I'm actually getting married on Saturday and will be in Mexico for the week after so it may be more like three weeks, not two, just this one time.

Louis is really nervous. Way more nervous than he ever was before he performed on _The X-Factor._ It probably helped a bit that he was a huge underdog—there was literally no pressure when you weren’t expected to succeed. It probably also helped that he actually knew how to sing and he has no idea how to cook.

 

Each team has a tiny green room at the television studio, which is nice. What isn’t nice is that Harry’s not even here yet. He’s still filming his intro package. And Louis has already looked over the room once, but even though it only took a few moments, he does it again because he’s bored and nervous and that’s not a good combination for him.

 

There’s a comfortable but rather worn brown leather sofa, but instead of sinking into its comforting depths, Louis is perched on the edge, afraid he might wrinkle his button-up. In the corner is a mini fridge with cold drinks. A fruit basket perches on the top, and just as Louis requested, there’s a hot water kettle and a tolerable but not exactly thorough selection of tea. A tiny attached ensuite bathroom and lighted mirror and counter for makeup rounds out the small room.

 

Louis grimaces. There’s just not enough distractions in here. He’s tempted to go dig through his bag and find his phone that he stashed there when he arrived, but what would he even do? Check his email? Text Alberto for the millionth time that this was a huge mistake and he and Harry are going to be the first team eliminated?

 

Louis taps his foot agitatedly against the edge of the veneered coffee table. He’s going to have to cook in about an hour. Like actual real food that people are going to eat.

 

Not just people. _Judges._

 

Simon Majumdar, who’s rather notorious in the restaurant world for being harsh.

 

Geoffrey Zakarian, who’s _more_ notorious for being severe.

 

And an unknown rotating third judge that will change each week.

 

When Louis wailed to Harry that they’d have to impress someone _brand new_ each week, Harry had just shrugged and said it didn’t really matter. Because if they couldn’t impress Simon and Geoffrey they were rather screwed anyway.

 

Louis feels the knot of nerves in his stomach twist a little tighter.

 

That’s when the door opens, and Harry walks in. He’s dressed in tight black jeans and he’s got on a crisp white chef’s jacket, with his last name embroidered in stark black font on the right-hand side. And because this is Harry and he seems to enjoy turning Louis on at the most inopportune moments, it’s mostly unbuttoned, his broad, muscular chest that’s littered with tattoos practically on full display.

 

Louis has never seen this before and it’s quite a look.

 

“Is this a thing?” Louis asks, scooting off the sofa and approaching Harry. He runs a finger up the placket of undone buttons, careful to only touch the fabric. They haven’t moved into touching bare skin yet, even though Louis is practically salivating to caress all the parts of Harry he’s been fortunate to see—and all the parts that he _hasn’t_ been fortunate to see.

 

Harry’s hair is half-pulled back, little ringlets dangling along his smooth neck as he nods and laughs, his eyes glowing fierce and green. Louis swallows hard. Harry looks like the love child of Mick Jagger and Julia Child, and it’s way hotter than he ever imagined it would be.

 

“You look beautiful,” Harry says softly, his own hand reaching up to gently brush the feathered quiff that Louis labored over for an hour this morning. The products he generally uses stand up quite well under the heat of the stage lights, so he’s hoping the heat of the kitchen won’t be much difference.

 

He knows it’s silly to worry over something like a wilted quiff, but it’s nice change to worry about something he actually has control over.

 

“I like your hair like this,” Harry says. “It shows off your features. They deserve to be properly shown off.” His fingers brush over Louis’ cheekbones. The pads of his fingers are rough with work but they glide over his skin like it’s the finest thing they’ve ever felt.

 

Louis blushes. So much for getting his crush into a more manageable state. His heart is beating rapidly, and when Harry’s hand brushes lower, his fingers ghosting over where it’s thumping in his chest, Louis knows Harry must realize that he’s the cause. It would be embarrassing, but Louis wonders if he put his hands over Harry’s heart, he’d feel something very similar.

 

“Are you ready?” Harry asks softly.

 

“No,” Louis answers honestly. “Not at all. But might as well give it a whirl.”

 

Harry reached down and threaded his fingers through Louis’ and squeezed them tight. Louis thought he could feel his erratic heartbeat in them. “Let’s whirl, then.”

 

\---

 

 

Louis’ forgotten how quickly things move when they actually get on set.

 

 _The X-Factor_ always moved through acts fairly rapidly, but there’s still a stage to reset between each act. During _Kitchen Wars_ , there’s no break. From the moment they hit the sound stage, it feels like there’s literally not a single moment for Louis to catch his breath.

 

One minute they’re being ushered to their respective stations, awaiting Alton's appearance to give the introduction, the next, there he is, and he’s talking and explaining the rules.

 

Louis glances down the line and sees a similar shell-shocked expression on every celebrity’s face. The chefs are tougher nuts to crack—most seem fairly relaxed and confident, but it takes literally zero effort to pick out the people who don’t cook for a living.

 

Of course.

 

Alton moves on from explaining the basic rules to the individual rules for today’s contest.

 

“For this week,” he says coyly, like he’s unwrapping a gift that he knows he’ll particularly enjoy, “the celebrity contestants will be doing all the prep work, and the chef alone will be doing any and all cooking.”

 

Louis blanches. He literally feels himself go white. He reaches down without even thinking, beneath the stainless steel counter and finds Harry’s hand, grasping it hard. No matter how much he paid attention in the knife skills lessons Harry gave him, Louis is just plain _not ready_ to have to do all the prep for a dish that will decide if they stay at the competition after this week.

 

He was really expecting— _hoping_ , anyway—that Harry would get to take the lead this week. Unfortunately that is not looking to be the case.

 

Alton continues. “You’ll all start with 25,000 pounds, to use for bidding on auction items. Placing in the top three guarantees you a payout so you can bolster up your reserves for the next week.

 

First place gets five thousand pounds, second place twenty-five hundred pounds and third place a thousand pounds. The team with the lowest judges’ score each week will be eliminated.”

 

That’s when Alton stops, his voice ringing through the soundstage and lets the finality of his last phrase sink in.

 

Louis really doesn’t want to be eliminated. He wants to stay in this competition and gain a wider audience for his music. He wants the audience to be reminded he’s not that one gay pop star who came in second place on _The X-Factor_ a few years back. He also wants to spend the time with Harry, and to get Harry his bakery that he wants so dearly.

 

It’s a lot of things to want without any real concrete idea on how to go about getting them.

 

He grips Harry’s hand harder, and feels it squeeze his own fingers back. It’s reassuring until Louis remembers that he’s the one doing all the prep work this week. It could be him that lets them down.

 

“This week’s auction is,” Alton says, and then pauses dramatically to whip up a silver turreted lid from the table, “salt and pepper!”

 

There’s a single salt and pepper set sitting on the table. Louis is confused. Someone has to cook with salt and pepper? Aren’t they _always_ supposed to cook with salt and pepper?

 

Louis glances over at Harry, hoping he’ll be able to add some illumination onto the problem. But before he can murmur a question under his breath, Alton starts talking again.

 

“One of the number one tenets of cooking,” Alton says conversationally, as if they’re just hanging out, “is seasoning the food properly. However, whoever wins _this_ auction will be the _only_ team seasoning their food.”

 

Louis can feel Harry tense up next to him. In fact, the air in the whole soundstage seems to tighten up. And when Louis glances down the line, he can literally see the dread etched on every single chef’s face. The celebrities look good, but a little unaware of just how terrible a fate this particular auction item is.

 

The other issue is that Louis realizes he’s been so busy flirting with Harry that they’ve barely covered auction planning. They’d talked about it once or twice, but mostly they’d boasted they thought they could make it through without spending _any_ money on auction items.

 

Louis is suddenly thinking better of this idea. He tries to nudge Harry, but Harry gives him a tiny little shake of the head, as if to say, “nope, we’ve got this.”

 

It feels terrifying, a bit like jumping off a cliff with only the wide open blue sea below, but Louis makes the conscious decision to trust Harry. If he thinks they can do this without salt and pepper, then they can.

 

“Who’ll start the bidding at 500 pounds?” Alton asks gleefully, clearly enjoying the way each chef is squirming far too much.

 

The bidding quickly goes wild, with almost every team participating at first. But after the bidding hits two thousand pounds, the only pairs left battling it out are Ben Winston and Paul Higgins.

 

Louis feels a moment of fear; Harry had said that Paul had been one of his professors in culinary school. _Surely_ he would know better than just about anyone how vital salt and pepper are. If he’s still bidding, maybe it’s impossible to do this without them.

 

But a single glance to his right, to Harry’s calm expression, reassures Louis.

 

Ben Winston and his partner Perrie win the salt and pepper auction at the rather outrageous price of 4,500 pounds.

 

Alton looks down the line of pairs, and Louis practically feels skewered by his look. He and Harry were the only ones to not bid on the salt and pepper auction at all. He’s not sure if that was smart or stupid; only time will tell.

 

“One member of your team will get sixty seconds to shop,” Alton says, “for this week’s theme. British pub food.”

 

They’ve already agreed that it will be far better for Harry to do the shopping, and when Alton counts off the time, Louis frantically cranes his head, trying to find Harry in the glassed in pantry, fighting for ingredients to cook their first dish.

 

Sixty seconds pass so quickly that it feels like Louis hasn’t breathed the whole time. He must not be the only one, because Harry is panting rather heavily when he makes it back to their station with a full basket of ingredients. He shoots Louis a look after Alton announces their sixty minute cooking time starts now.

 

“Bloody hell,” Harry murmurs under his breath. “I thought Niall was going to fight me in the meat locker.”

 

Louis shrugs as Harry pokes through their basket. “Did you get what you wanted?”

 

Harry frowns. “I _think_ so. I wanted to keep it simple, since you’re doing the prep. And use ingredients that have a lot of natural flavor, since we can’t use salt or pepper.”

 

“That’s gonna be tough,” Louis says, “I only eat deep fried food in pubs. Don’t you have to salt most fried food?”

 

Harry shoots him another, even darker look. “We’re not deep frying anything. British pub food doesn’t have to be heavy and dense and flavorless. Even without salt.”

 

“Right,” Louis says brightly, “what are we making then?”

 

“A burger. Stuffed with brie, with a mushroom ragoût on a brioche bun.”

 

Louis is impressed before he realizes that he’s going to be the one prepping all those ingredients.

 

The panic must show on his face, because Harry takes a break from unpacking their basket and lays a reassuring hand on his forearm.

 

“It’s a fairly easy dish. Plus I’ll be next to you the whole time, talking you through it.”

 

Louis takes a deep, unsteady breath and focuses. “Okay. What do I need to do first?”

 

Harry leads him through cutting the brie into chunks, then forming the ground beef around the cheese. The beef feels gross, and Louis can’t really bear to look down at his hands. Out his periphery he can see the cameras looming down on them as he makes one disgusted face then another, giggling through the slime sliding between his fingers and the responding fondness in Harry’s eyes as he leans down to get closer to Louis.

 

Louis hopes the cameras catch how sweet Harry’s smile is as he runs to the sinks to wash his hands the literal second the last patty is made.

 

When Louis returns to their station, Harry’s waiting there with an expectant expression. “Ready to chop?” he asks with a sly twist to his lips.

 

Louis makes a face. “I hate chopping.”

 

“Chop, chop, baby,” Harry teases. And Louis is pretty sure one of the cameras has been focused almost exclusively on them since the sixty minute time started. He knows they’re cute, knows they’re flirting with each other, almost unconsciously at this point, and realizes that they must make really excellent television.

 

So it’s not like he _plays_ up the flirting for extra effect, but well, if he bats his eyelashes a moment longer while he wipes and carefully chops the mushrooms and washes the arugula, then nobody can really blame him. The public isn’t actually voting for them, but Louis knows how this all really works. If they become crowd favorites, the producers will make sure they stick around.

 

Harry cottons on as he finally moves to set the burgers carefully onto the stovetop grill. “What are you doing?” he asks quietly, leaning in and letting the sizzling of the cooking meat prevent the cameras from picking up on his words.

 

Louis leans in further. If the cameras catch any of this, it’ll just look like two boys who seem very much into each other—which is _technically_ true. “What I can to make sure we win,” he says and rises up on his tiptoes and presses a quick, fleeting kiss to Harry’s cheek.

 

His shocked expression melts into pure pleasure. “Darling,” he purrs, “I’ve gotta grab the bacon.”

 

Harry had said he doesn’t typically put bacon on this particular burger, but with the lack of salt on the meat itself, he’d said that he thought the bacon might help offset the lack of seasoning. Louis doesn’t know anything about cooking, but he loves bacon so he wholeheartedly approves.

 

Leaning against the counter, Louis cocks his hip and tries to emphasize the curves he loathed for so many years but has learned to appreciate. He hopes Harry can appreciate them too. “We should put bacon on everything,” he says, “just for me.”

 

Harry’s smile is like the sun. “On everything?”

 

Louis can see the camera panning in on them from the corner of his eye. He reaches up and tucks a curl behind Harry’s ear. His hair is so soft, Louis never wants to stop putting his fingers in it. But he has to forcibly restrain himself this time around. It’s not the time or the place— _yet_. Besides, he does still want Harry quite a bit, cameras notwithstanding, and he’s not willing to sacrifice all of their interactions to win this show.

 

They’ll have to figure out where and how to draw the line. Meanwhile, Louis just wants to keep touching Harry.

 

Louis carefully butters the brioche buns and Harry toasts them impeccably, leaving their moist, buttery insides the perfect color Louis wants his skin to be when he’s spent a week out on the beach tanning.

 

While Harry is manning the mushrooms and the burgers, Louis has quite a bit more time to observe the other teams. Everyone appears fairly absorbed in cooking their own food, though there do seem to be some team breakdowns already—a few of the celebrities and chefs don’t actually appear to be speaking to one another—and Louis is really, truly profoundly glad that he has Harry on his side.

 

Louis also observes that most of the other teams are making a lot more than just a burger. Most of them have sides, or salads, or other items. When he mentions this particular point to Harry, maybe mentioning they should have some kind of additional item other than their burger, Harry just shakes his head.

 

“This is plenty,” Harry says, pointing to their burgers. “Plus, typical sides are chips or onion rings or other things that will be really hard to season properly without salt or pepper. Anyone that’s using potatoes is crazy.”

 

Louis decided that he was going to trust Harry, so he just nods and goes back to watching Harry carefully construct their burger.

 

They have a good ten minutes to make sure it’s flawless and Harry does, even walking around the plate and nudging the burger a bit to make sure it’s structurally sound.

 

“It’s not going to fall apart,” Louis says, even though he really isn’t an expert here. He’s just hoping that it won’t, and it helps to say it out loud.

 

“The mushrooms are a bit wetter than I normally make them,” Harry says, as he fusses with it. “I put in quite a bit more beef stock to try to compensate for not using salt.”

 

The mushrooms had tasted delicious when Harry had given Louis a taste, extending a spoon shyly towards Louis’ mouth.

 

Mushrooms aren’t the sexiest food in the world to eat, but Louis had done the best job he could, wrapping his lips around the spoon and sucking the morsels off like they were the best thing he’d ever eaten. And it wasn’t even that far from the truth.

 

Harry had watched with dark, intense eyes as Louis had finally relinquished the cleaned spoon.

 

“You’re a minx,” he’d whispered into Louis’ ear when he’d leaned down to minutely adjust one of the bun tops on the burgers.

 

“You love it,” Louis had whispered right back.

 

He’d felt so on top of the world right then, watching the tendon in Harry’s neck flex and his long, deep breaths. Louis had been nearly a hundred percent sure that Harry was only seconds away from literally dragging Louis away to some dark corner and snogging the hell out of him.

 

It’s a little selfish but Louis almost hopes the cameras didn’t catch that rather sexually charged exchange because it feels like more than just a play for the audience's affection. It feels like so much more. He _wants_ it to be so much more.

 

But this’ll all end if they can’t make it past the first judging session.

 

Louis’ heart is in his throat as the time ticks to a close and they set their plates on the judging table. The judges file in—and it’s rather as expected, except for the guest judge is Jamie Oliver.

 

Louis can hear Harry tense and squeak a little bit when he recognizes him. And yeah, Jamie Oliver is really cute. Straight, but still quite, quite cute. If Louis was going to watch those cooking shows he’d totally watch Jamie Oliver’s.

 

But Jamie Oliver. This is good. Their burger is fairly healthy as burgers go, right? And Jamie Oliver is all about veggies and kale and smoothies or so Louis has been told. This should be a shoe-in.

 

Suddenly Louis doesn’t just want to make it through to next week, he wants to win. Or at the very least, place in the top three. Be a team to be reckoned with, the rest of the competition.

 

He looks down the line at the food. There’s two fish and chips entries. He sees a few pies, with beautifully burnished crusts, an artistically arranged plate of sausages and what looks a bit like cabbage, and something that’s almost certainly bangers and mash. It’s just about everything he loves about pub food, and suddenly he’s a lot hungrier.

 

They’re the only team that’s done a burger. But Louis feels stubbornly good about that. He _wants_ to stand out though at the beginning of this whole thing, really the last thing Louis ever wanted was be singled out by the judges.

 

Harry has changed so much of Louis’ outlook, even in the first week.

 

The judges work their way down the line of plates, offering even more casual criticism than Louis was honestly expecting and miserly dishing out tiny little tidbits of praise.

 

Barbara Palvin’s fish is pronounced a little soggy, and the batter flavorless. The chips also don’t have enough flavor, despite being apparently soaked in garlic and parmesan. Harry looks downright shocked at this development, like he couldn’t even conceive of a world where Barbara Palvin might make food that doesn’t taste like heaven. Of course, it doesn’t help that she attempted a dish that even _Louis_ knows needs salt to make truly sing.

 

“And this,” Simon says with a disgusted curl of his lip, pointing to Liam Payne’s artistically arranged pile of cabbage next to an admittedly sad looking pair of sausages. “This is literally the most pathetic attempt at flavor I’ve tasted all day. And that’s saying something.”

 

Louis cringes, maybe even more than Liam is cringing right now. Liam has kind brown eyes and the kind of body that would probably reject salt even if it was an option. Louis wants to give Liam a hug right now, and say that everything will be okay because nobody deserves to be publicly humiliated.

 

Suddenly, Louis isn’t quite so sure he wants to be judged. Or to stand out.

 

Geoffrey Zakarian reaches their burger and hums almost appreciatively. Okay, so maybe Louis is just hoping that was an appreciative hum. It might have been a completely neutral hum. He hears Harry take a rather unsteady breath and Louis realizes he’s basically bracing himself for the worst—which is so ridiculous because Harry should have as much faith in himself as Louis has in him.

 

“A brie stuffed burger topped with a mushroom ragout, sir,” Harry says very politely. Such a nice boy; he’s definitely the nicest boy that Louis has ever tried to date. Not that they’ve ever actually _tried_ to date, none of what they’ve done so far could even remotely be called dating.

 

 _Focus_ , Louis yells at himself. He can’t lose himself in an internal debate about whether he should properly ask Harry Styles out to dinner when Simon Majumdar and Geoffrey Zakarian are about to shred their burger with their Michelin star fingers.

 

“Looks a bit silly without a side,” Geoffrey observes and Louis hates that he’d made the very same observation. He’s jinxed them.

 

“If the flavor holds up, I’d much rather have one really excellent item than two mediocre ones,” Jamie Oliver inserts with a crinkled smile. Louis _knew_ he thought he was cute for a reason. “Let’s give this a try.”

 

Louis’ heart is in his throat as Simon, Geoffrey, and Jamie all pick up the burger. Jamie’s falls apart a tiny bit, and he can practically _feel_ Harry chanting in his head, praying that it will continue to stay together. One by one, they put down the burger and Louis can hear the beat of heart as there’s an interminable silence.

 

“The flavor is definitely there,” Jamie says with a reassuring smile. Louis manages to let out a bit of the breath he was holding.

 

“Not sure I would have picked brie as the cheese,” Geoffrey observes, but it’s a lot more thoughtful than snide. As if he’s truly trying to decide if brie was the right route to take.

 

“Maybe a sharp cheddar might have worked better here,” Simon says. “A really sharp white cheddar. Would have bumped up the flavor profile a bit. But it’s definitely quite tasty. I love the mushrooms and the arugula.”

 

Louis wants to faint with relief. He also wants to fling his arms around Harry and kiss him pretty much all over. In fact, he smugly decides that he is most certainly going to do the latter during their absolute next break. He can’t wait any longer. He doesn’t _want_ to wait any longer. He also would quite like to ask Harry to dinner. A dinner _date_. He’s got to make sure this _thing_ is at least in process before he explodes of sexual frustration.

 

“I do wish there’d been a side,” Geoffrey adds. “The plate feels a bit simple. A bit empty.”

 

“And mine didn’t stay together very well,” Jamie says with a tiny apologetic shrug. He’s really quite a bit nicer than either Geoffrey or Simon, but he _did_ still mention it.

 

It wouldn’t do for the judges to give him a perfectly nice review, but Louis is still over the moon. Based on some of the other critiques that were given, there is almost no way he and Harry will be eliminated today. He can breathe again.

 

Except Louis does get a bit jealous when it’s Niall and Melissa’s turn. All three judges rave over his sausages—even his mashed potatoes and gravy, which Louis didn’t even know you could prepare decently without any real seasoning. But somehow Niall did it, which makes the judges’ praise even more annoying.

 

The worst critique of the hour definitely goes to Tom and Lou, who get an askance look at their rather sad looking pair of Scotch eggs sitting on a plate, with only a sprig of parsley as a garnish. Harry had said that Tom has a rather good reputation as a mixologist in town, and he’s done a lot more work recently with beverages than food. But, Harry had also warned, flavor is flavor.

 

The problem with Tom’s flavor is that it’s just not enough to even begin to compensate for a lack of salt and pepper. And Simon bluntly asks him if he bothered to season the eggs at all. Tom just smirks, and Louis decides he doesn’t even feel that sorry for him.

 

Ben Winston—the only chef who _could_ cook with salt and pepper—goes the utterly safe route and has prepared the second fish and chips dish. The judges give a neutral if not overly enthusiastic evaluation. Which is funny, because Ben and Perrie spent forty-five hundred pounds on _salt_. Whatever they made should be practically transcendent.

 

The unknown, Niall Breslin, prepares what is apparently a very tasty steak and sausage pie. His pastry is glorious, a perfectly burnished golden brown and the judges only ding him for a slight lack of salt. The fact that he’d managed to get even _some_ seasoning into his pie is an achievement though. Louis is dying to discuss this with Harry, but he has to stand quietly and not give a running commentary on the _judges’_ commentary, which is a lot harder than he ever anticipated.

 

Finally, the judges move onto the last dish, a shepherd’s pie prepared by Paul Higgins and James Corden. The judges like the flavor, but. . .

 

“The vegetables are really unevenly cut,” Geoffrey says and the annoyance in his tone is ripe. “Thus some of them aren’t cooked all the way through.”

 

That is totally on James Corden, who did all the prep, per the challenge. Louis has never been more grateful at how patient and certain Harry was that Louis be up to speed in the kitchen before the show even started. He never wants to be the reason they’re judged harshly, though he supposes in the end, it’s probably inevitable. He just isn’t a professional chef. But it still must suck to be James, and Louis feels a pang of sympathy for him as his face falls during Geoffrey’s comments.

 

Alton steps up then, and he looks like he’s enjoying himself just a bit too much. It would bother Louis more, but he feels fairly certain that he and Harry are safe.

 

“The judges will need some time to deliberate on their decision,” Alton announces, and everyone files backstage, looking appropriately nervous—even Niall and Melissa. Louis can barely refrain from rolling his eyes.

 

Louis just hopes that however long it takes the judges’ to come to their decision, it’s enough time for him to give Harry a proper snog.

 

He shouldn’t have even wondered. The moment their green room door closes behind them, Louis opens his mouth to give all the opinions he’s barely been able to hold back during the judging, but Harry pounces too quick and he’s throwing his arms around Louis, hugging him tightly.

 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he chants into Louis’ ear, the words innocent, but the delivery husky and far too dirty for Louis to handle. He groans a little and wiggles closer.

 

“I didn’t do anything,” he mumbles into Harry’s curls. “Literally almost nothing.”

 

“You were perfect. And perfectly adorable,” Harry explains softly, pulling back a little. Harry’s lovely green eyes are shining so close, and Louis actually thinks to himself that he can’t wait any longer to kiss him when Harry leans in and brushes his mouth over Louis’.

 

He pulls back before it even becomes a real kiss. It’s only a teasing little taste of everything Louis wants, but Harry only stares at him, a smile flirting around the corners of the lips that Louis is dying to keep kissing. “Is this okay?” Harry asks, as if Louis hasn’t been throwing himself at him practically from the first moment they’ve met. As if he hasn’t made his appallingly embarrassing crush so obvious.

 

“Yes,” Louis responds right away. “ _Yes.”_

 

“Good,” Harry says, then he swoops in again, faster this time, his lips pressing onto Louis’ and it’s perfect. Firm and soft and lovely. Louis wants to swoon. Good thing there’s a handy door behind them. He rather collapses against it, his knees turning to mush as Harry frames Louis’ face with his big, calloused hands, tracing over his cheekbones and his jawline with the most delicate, sensual sweeps.

 

Harry holds his head and angles him just so and his tongue is so confident and sure, so _hungry_ for a taste of Louis. Harry’s kisses are desperate and so real and Louis is nearly stunned by the depth of Harry’s desire, because while he’d admitted their feelings were mutual, Harry keeps so much of it buried. He’s so much better than Louis at keeping it hidden when it needs to be, and it makes the rawness of this kiss that much hotter. Louis really likes the idea that he’s the only one who can undo Harry this way.

 

With a panting gasp, Harry wrenches his mouth off Louis’, and slides it down his neck, nibbling and sucking every bit of skin he can reach, and the scrape of Harry’s teeth against Louis’ tendon has him moaning with zero thought to how thin the walls are and who possibly might be listening.

 

“Hot,” Harry breathes onto Louis’ skin. “So hot. Today. You. I can’t.”

 

Louis giggles and it’s high and breathy and he’s definitely affected by this. His cock is hard and throbbing in his pants, and he’s about five kisses away from forgetting himself completely and just shamelessly rubbing it against Harry’s crotch.

 

“Use your words,” he teases in a mumble, tilting his head so he can recapture Harry’s mouth with his own.

 

They kiss and kiss some more, their lips slick against each other, until the only sound Louis can hear is his heart pounding in his chest.

 

Harry lifts his head again. “I get what you were doing today,” he slurs out, the sound of his voice deep and wrecked. Louis wants to hear it like this all the time.

 

“What?” Louis doesn’t really want to talk. He just wants to kiss. Forever. And maybe, you know, alleviate some of the pressure in his pants. Minor things.

 

Harry pulls back more this time, and Louis can see just how blown his pupils are. His lips are plump and red and wet and Louis has to take an unsteady breath. He wants so much. “I want to talk about it,” he says. “But we needed to do that first.”

 

Louis makes an unsuccessful grab for the collar of Harry’s chef jacket, but he’s already abandoned Louis at the door and he’s making his way to the couch. He settles down on it and pats the seat next to him. “Seriously,” Harry says.

 

“What if I wanted to keep doing that?” Louis whines.

 

“I want to keep doing it too,” Harry admits.

 

“Okay then,” Louis says, reaching again for Harry, but he ungracefully dodges Louis’ grasp.

 

“Seriously,” Harry repeats in an adorable huff. “I get what you were doing. And that’s okay. That’s good. I get it.”

 

Louis can sense the “but” coming from a mile away and he tenses up, waiting for it. “But,” Harry continues, “I don’t want to confuse me or confuse you. I like you. I’m pretty sure you like me. I just don’t want you to think that it’s just flirting for ratings or whatever. I want more, with you.”

 

Louis’ heart melts like ice cream in July. “Really?”

 

“I’d love to take you out on a proper date, actually,” Harry admits rather shyly—which is very cute because literally not two minutes ago, his tongue was in Louis’ mouth and his hands had been wandering in the direction of his bum.

 

“Are you asking me out, Bananas?” Louis asks, hope blooming in his chest.

 

Harry nods. “Just. . .I’ve got to work early tomorrow in the bakery. So not tonight. But definitely this week. Maybe I could make you dinner at my flat?”

 

“I’d love that,” Louis says, feeling unnaturally shy himself. “Really love that.”

 

Harry cuddles close into him and Louis leans over, kissing him again because he can’t really help himself.

 

Five minutes later, and they’re still kissing. Louis’ neck is crimping from the uncomfortable angle and he’s just about to say _fuck it_ , and climb right onto Harry’s lap when there’s a knock on the door.

 

“Damnit,” Louis grumbles. He was _so_ close to maybe getting some in their green room. During the first week. He literally couldn’t have envisioned today going better.

 

“That was quick,” Harry says, and he sounds quite disappointed. Louis loves it; he is definitely going to try to keep him. He turns to Louis. “You shouldn’t be worried. I think we’re pretty safe.”

 

It’s truly unfortunate, but Louis forces himself off the couch, and saunters over to the mirrors to try to fix his hair. He’s going to have to institute a “no touching above the neck rule” when they’re in-between filming. Just the fact that he might be forced to makes his heart sing and his body feel lighter than air.

 

“I’m not,” Louis admits. “We did good. There’s at least two or three teams that I think might go. But not us.”

 

“Might even have a shot at the top three today,” Harry says slowly, as if he’s afraid saying it out loud will jinx their chances. Harry is quirky and cute; he might _actually_ think that. Louis is forever endeared.

 

“No might about it,” Louis insists.

 

Harry walks up behind him and Louis is a bit distracted—and okay, probably more like _mesmerized_ —by the few quick swipes Harry gives to his hair. The haphazard, carefree way that Harry treats his looks is kind of inspiring to Louis, who typically spends far more time than is probably healthy obsessing that every hair is in its proper place.

 

Harry doesn’t care, and lets his hair flop wherever—and of course, it looks perfect.

 

Louis can’t decide if he’s endeared or jealous as hell.

 

He spends the next two minutes fixing the damage Harry wrought on his quiff, and even though they’re two minutes late, it’s worth every glare.

 

After all the teams are assembled, the cameras roll and Alton steps forward, first listing off the teams that are safe—neither in the bottom or top groups. It’s an unsurprising list.

 

Paul Higgins and James Corden.

 

Liam Payne and Zayn Malik. Liam looks like he’s about to fall to the floor and kiss Alton’s shoes.

 

Ben Winston and Perrie. Louis thinks with a sniff that if you’re going to spend all that money on salt and pepper, you should make sure your dish is good enough to make it in the top three. Unfortunately, there isn’t a confessional style interview on _Kitchen Wars_ , which means that the only person he can possibly say such a catty remark to is Harry, when they’re finally alone again.

 

And let’s face it, when he gets Harry alone again, the first thing on his mind isn’t going to be all the snarky comments he held in during the judging session.

 

“That leaves five teams—the bottom two and our top three.”

 

Alton drags it out as long as humanly possible, Louis thinks, but he’s still not all that nervous. In fact, he was way more nervous that their name might be called in the initial group. But poor Harry is looking a bit worse for the wear.

 

Louis is a reality television veteran. He knows better. He really, really does. But when he sees Harry flush and then go white, then green around the edges, Louis doesn’t even _think_. He just acts. It doesn’t matter if what he does is in full view of cameras—he realizes later that even if he _had_ thought about it, it still wouldn’t have mattered. He _still_ would have comforted Harry.

 

He reaches out his hand and tangles Harry’s fingers with his, giving him a comforting squeeze. Louis can feel the tension melt out of Harry, even from that one small touch, and he doesn’t even care that probably four separate cameras caught it. This is still just for them, even if the show’s managed to record it for the public’s viewing pleasure.

 

“In the bottom two, Barbara and Eleanor,” Alton announces. “And Tom and Lou.”

 

Harry grips Louis’ fingers hard and Louis says _fuck it,_ and glances up at Harry’s face. He’s beaming with a full complement of dimples. “We did it,” Harry mouths at Louis.

 

They end up in third, which is not quite as amazing as Louis was secretly hoping for—but is still _far_ better than Louis ever expected, considering that he can’t cook at all. He nearly jumps into Harry’s arms when Alton says their names.

 

Niall and Melissa win the full five thousand pounds, which considering what he was able to accomplish with no salt and pepper, is well deserved. Niall Breslin and Sophia Smith come in second, and Louis can see the edges of Harry’s smile darkening a bit. Louis wants to smooth away the wrinkles and tell him it’s going to all be okay, even if Harry didn’t know anything about Niall Breslin. It’s not Harry’s job to scout the competition.

 

To nobody’s surprise, Lou and Tom are eliminated for their piss poor scotch eggs and suddenly, the day that Louis has been dreading since he found out about _Kitchen Wars_ is over and it’s been amazing. Completely the opposite of everything Louis was sure it would be.

 

It even turns out that he doesn’t even _want_ to leave, even when they’re back in their green room, packing up, Louis throws all caution to the wind.

 

“You wanna come over?” he asks Harry, before he can think about it and think better of his offer.

 

Harry looks genuinely regretful. “I’ve got an early morning tomorrow and a few days this week at the bakery, I’d better get some sleep.”

 

Louis tells himself that this is _not_ a rejection. It almost completely works. “But,” Harry continues with a sweet, little bit sly smile, “would Wednesday night work for you for dinner?”

 

Wednesday night is amazing. The only downside of Wednesday night is that it’s literally four nights from now. Louis points this out, unable to keep the pout of his voice.

 

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder, though,” Harry teases, wrapping his hands around Louis’ waist and drawing him closer. “I promise you’ll like me even more by Wednesday.”

 

Harry is probably teasing but also probably not wrong. Louis huffs a little, but most definitely allows Harry one kiss that turns into about four before they finally break apart.

 

“Text me then,” Louis begs a little when he finally manages to remove his mouth from Harry’s.

 

“Of course.” Harry looks a bit mystified that this is even a concern which reassures Louis like almost nothing else. Not that he should really need reassurance when his lips are still wet from Harry’s mouth and there’s a big enough bruise on his neck that Louis should be _really_ glad they aren’t filming again for  a week.

 

“Good.” Louis licks his lips and only barely refrains from leaning in again. He needs to find some self-control. Harry’s hot enough that he’s evaporated all of what Louis had.

 

They part reluctantly only when Alberto rings Louis for the tenth time, no doubt desperate for an update on how the day’s filming went, and if he will need to miraculously dredge up another reality show for his client to appear on.

 

“Tell him you’re wonderful,” Harry says with a parting kiss. “And everyone loves you.”

 

Louis spends the first ten minutes on the phone with Alberto in a daze, wondering just _what_ Harry meant by that particular comment.

 

“Louis,” Alberto finally grinds out in an annoyed, “for the love of god, _please_ , pay attention for once.”

 

“Sorry, what?” Louis knows he’s in a daze. It’s not his fault. Harry is wonderful and perfectly daze-worthy.

 

“God damn it, Louis,” Alberto grumbles, but there’s a kind of affection running through his words. “I said they’re going to leak the _Kitchen Wars_ participants tomorrow. So I’m setting up some paps for you at the studio tomorrow.”

 

Louis makes a face even though he’s on the phone and Alberto can’t see it. “I’m not going to the studio tomorrow.”

 

“You are now,” Alberto insists. “You’re a singer. It’s important to remind people you make music.”

 

“Right.”

 

“I’ll text you time and address. Look good.”

 

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that,” Louis grumbles.

 

“Louis,” Alberto insists gently.

 

“You’re the one who wanted me to go on this show!” Louis exclaims.

 

Alberto changes the subject, and Louis lets him because he’s probably right. And going to the studio will give him something to do tomorrow. He has a few songs he wouldn’t mind tweaking with better equipment than he’s got in his flat, anyway.

 

\---

 

The list of celebrities and their chefs on _Kitchen Wars_ leaks first thing the next morning.

 

Louis wakes up to about a thousand texts and emails from people he hasn’t heard from in months. He forwards most of them onto Alberto and tells himself as he takes a shower and brews his tea that this is all good. He’s good.

 

Alberto texts the address of the studio and time the pap will be waiting for him. Louis fusses over his hair and debates endlessly between a red scoop neck t-shirt that displays his favorite tattoo—a chest piece that reads “it is what it is”—and a vintage Rolling Stones t-shirt that makes him look awesome and bad ass.

 

Finally he reaches for his phone and opens a text to Harry, who he’s naturally saved as “Bananas” in his phone.

 

 **Which one????????????** he asks. **I’m getting papped today at the studio.**

 

Harry’s reply is quick. They’ve texted pretty consistently over the last two weeks, not as much as Louis would have liked because if it was as much as Louis would have liked, they would never stop. But Harry is always fast to respond with cute, silly comments and a string of bizarre emojis to whatever nonsense Louis sends him. It warms his heart.

 

**You’d look blindingly hot in the red. But wear the Rolling Stones shirt. You’re trying to make people take you seriously.**

 

Harry is so right. Louis _does_ look hot in the red shirt, but he really does want to be taken seriously.

 

When Louis doesn’t respond right away—he’s tugging on his tight black jeans and slipping on a pair of Vans, checking his hair one last time in the mirror—Harry texts him again.

 

**So which one will I be wanking over?**

 

Louis giggles. **Naughty boy, Harold. Since you can’t behave yourself, you’ll just have to wait and see.**

 

He slips his phone in his pocket and resolutely doesn’t look at it until after he’s done parading slowly and a little bit pathetically in front of the studio door. It’s amazing that anyone actually believes the farce Louis thinks as he sinks into the comfy leather couch in the studio. Amazing that him walking in front of a place where you could possibly make music is in fact confirmation that he _is_ making music, but people apparently will believe anything they’re told.

 

There’s been no response from Harry, and Louis pushes aside his disappointment. He knows Harry’s busy at the bakery this week, probably prepping for the theoretical onslaught of new visitors brought about by his new celebrity chef status.

 

Instead of pouting, Louis decides to keep himself busy. He works for hours on several new songs, tweaking and fiddling with the melodies and lyrics. Alberto has talked about leaking some of his studio sessions to try to generate some interest from labels at potentially signing Louis again.

 

Of course to make this plan work, there has be good music to leak in the first place, and Louis is determined to hold up his end of the bargain.

 

Alberto rings a few hours into Louis’ studio time.

 

“What,” Louis answers. “I’m busy. You know. Making music. Doing the thing for which I’m actually famous.”

 

Alberto ignores Louis. Louis thinks that’s pretty unfair; he’s supposed to be the client, and technically in charge. “Perrie gave an interview to Grimmy on Radio 1 today. When asked about you, she said you looked pretty chummy with Harry.”

 

“Is there a question in that statement?” Louis asks.

 

Per usual, Alberto cuts right to the point. Like a sharp knife, that Alberto. “Louis, what’s going on with Harry?”

 

“We have good chemistry. I do believe I mentioned that.” Louis doesn’t feel like he’s ready to tell Alberto that he and Harry have kissed or that their first date is this week. Eventually, he’ll be forced to tell him, but he’s just not ready yet. For now, Louis feels like it’s perfectly acceptable to focus on how cute they look together on the show.

 

“You did.” Alberto sounds quite testy.

 

“Maybe that’s what Perrie meant.”

 

Really, Louis is just a terrible liar.

 

“Louis,” Alberto warns, and it all just tumbles out of Louis’ mouth.

 

“I really like him. He’s sweet and kind and funny and we kissed and we have a date this week.”

 

“ _Louis,”_ Alberto says and it’s practically an exclamation point in verbal form.

 

“I know, I know. I’m not supposed to date my partner.” He doesn’t care; he’s not giving up Harry. End of story.

 

“Actually, that’s not necessarily true. But it’s risky.”

 

Nobody needs to tell Louis that. Of course, he thought he’d been cured of his annoying tendency to fall too hard, too fast, but Harry appears to be the exception to all those rules he’d made for himself last time everything fell apart.

 

Really, the _only_ time everything fell apart.

 

“I just want you to be sure you’re not making a mistake,” Alberto says gently.

 

“Harry’s not a mistake.” Louis isn’t sure of a lot of things, but that is one thing he is almost certain of.

 

“Just be sure.” Alberto pauses. “And try to keep it PG on the show please.”

 

“It’s like you don’t know me at all,” Louis scoffs and he can practically feel Alberto’s subsequent eye roll through his mobile.

 

He hangs up, but five minutes later there’s a text from Alberto.

 

**Grimmy tomorrow morning. 7 AM.**

 

Louis groans.

 

\---

 

Louis rather likes Nick Grimshaw, host of the Breakfast Show on Radio 1. They always have a good banter when he goes on, and Nick was proper supportive when Louis came out of the closet.

 

Of course that does not mean that Louis likes waking up so early or that Grimmy will be easy on him when he’s scented some potentially hot gossip.

 

“Tommo, I didn’t know you even knew how to cook,” he says casually, and Louis doesn’t have to be a genius to know just where this is going.

 

Louis stares at the duvet and picks at where a thread is beginning to come loose. The phone is pressed against his ear, damp and sweaty from his nervous palm. He considers dodging. He could dodge. Nick would almost certainly recognize it, but he won’t call him out on the radio. They’re friendly enough that he’ll probably let it slide.

 

But Louis isn’t certain he wants to dodge. So he leaves the decision up to Nick. “Well, that’s the point, really,” he drawls out, equally as casual. “I’ve got someone who’s supposed to teach me.”

 

It sounded way less obvious in Louis’ head, but something about the way he talks about Harry, even when he’s not saying Harry’s name is just not subtle whatsoever. Louis just can’t do subtle when it comes to Harry.

 

“Harry Styles, right?” Nick sounds so sly, even though he must realize that Louis practically served him up this subject on a silver platter.

 

“Right.” Louis has to practically bite his tongue. He wants to ramble on and on about Harry for hours. Talk about how his eyes shine like precious stones, how soft and curly and sweet his hair is, and the way Louis feels when Harry gazes at him like he’s something important.

 

But he doesn’t.

 

After all, this is Nick’s _job_. He needs to work a little harder for the dirt.

 

“You know, Perrie was on the other day. And she wouldn’t stop talking about how you and this Styles were attached at the hip.”

 

“We’ve only filmed once so far!” Louis protests, but it’s pretty weak.

 

“Moving fast are we, Tommo?” Nick teases.

 

“Harry’s a lovely person,” Louis says, and he’s smiling even though there’s absolutely nobody to see. “I think he’s going to be a great partner.”

 

He really hopes in one more than one way. But he doesn’t need to say it; Nick is quick enough.

 

“We’ll have to keep an eye on you two,” Nick says, and then he’s plugging the premiere of _Kitchen Wars_ in a few weeks and then they move onto talking about some of Louis’ new music. “A new sound,” Louis says, “definitely more mature,”—even though he’s still trying to figure out what this newer, more mature sound actually sounds like.

 

Nick says all the right things, enthused for new tracks, says they’re looking forward to hearing more from him.

 

The interview ends, and almost immediately his phone rings again. Louis doesn’t even check it before he picks up. “So how was it?” he demands, sure that Alberto will have about a million corrections, even though Louis himself thinks it went pretty damn well. With Nick’s help, he hinted all over the place that he and Harry are more than friends and hopefully, they’ll be quite a few people who will tune in just to assuage their curiosity.

 

“I liked it,” Harry says and Louis is so surprised he almost drops the phone.

 

“Oh, it’s you,” he says rather stupidly.

 

“Did you not know who it was?” Harry teases.

 

“I thought it was Alberto, actually, ready to complain about the interview.” Louis pauses. Makes the decision to be rather more honest than he’d normally be. “But I’m glad it’s you.”

 

“We listen to Radio 1 every morning in the bakery,” Harry explains. “Was quite surprised to hear your voice this morning.”

 

“Good or bad surprise?” Louis asks.

 

“Really, really good surprise. Just a bit taken aback to hear Grimmy interrogating you like that.”

 

Louis can’t help the laughter that explodes out of him. “Oh, me and Grimmy go way back. Anything he said—I wanted him to say.”

 

“You mean, you told him ahead of time?” Harry sounds confused.

 

Louis isn’t sure that he wants to go into how he knows how Grimmy thinks. Just like the radio host, Louis likes using flirtatious banter as a weapon, as a shovel to dig deeper, past all the surface crap. There was even a time when Louis might have had a little bit of a crush on Nick. That’s long past, but Louis still understands him.

 

“Not exactly,” Louis hedges.

 

“I mean, you sounded so. . . _Louis_ with him,” Harry says, and Louis thinks he might detect a hint of jealousy in his tone.

 

“He’s a good lad,” Louis says breezily. “Was proper supportive when I came out.”

 

“Right, right,” Harry says with a bit of a nervous chuckle and Louis takes pity on him.

 

“Bananas, there’s no reason to worry,” he says gently. “Trust me. I didn’t say anything I didn’t want to say. And Nick knows that.”

 

There’s a long quiet. Louis is almost afraid he’s said too much.

 

“I just don’t get this the way you do,” Harry says softly. “You understand everything that’s going on underneath, all the media stuff. I just bake.”

 

“You’re better off baking,” Louis says and to his own surprise, he sounds rather fervent. Rather jealous in fact. “It can be ugly, this media stuff. I don’t like understanding it, always. But I have to, for my career.”

 

“You’ll help me, yeah?” Harry asks. “When we do interviews?”

 

There’s nothing sweeter than Harry sounding like there’s nothing to be lost in asking for help—in asking for _Louis’_ help.

 

“Of course, love,” Louis says, tucking his knees up under his chin. “Anytime you need it.”

 

“You’re the best,” Harry says and though they’re on the phone, Louis can practically hear the smile on his face. “I gotta get back to these croissants, but I can’t wait for our date.”

 

Louis smiles back. “Me either.”

 

\------

 

Louis doesn’t care that his first date with Harry is at his flat, and that it’s probably very casual. He still spends a good hour in his closet, trying to decide what to wear.

 

It’s kind of cheating, but when he sees the flare of color out of the corner of his eye, Louis smirks and makes what’s a fairly instant decision.

 

Harold isn’t going to know what hit him.

 

Half an hour later, the cab pulls up to the building with Harry’s flat. Louis fluffs his fringe a little and slides out of the cab. He’s almost entirely certain the cabbie’s eyes are still on his arse as he walks up to the building, so the jeans he picked must be doing their job.

 

Really Louis isn’t sure if he wants Harry to open the door, fall to his knees and use that insane mouth for something useful or if he wants Harry to open the door, make him a delicious and intimate dinner, then propose marriage.

 

But he thinks he’s got either option pretty well covered.

 

As it turns out, Harry opens the door and neither fantasy comes true.

 

Okay, his mouth does go a bit slack when he takes in the red shirt of doom—doom being the place any guy goes who sees it and doesn’t end up wanting Louis—and that is quite gratifying. Exactly what Louis was going for.

 

“Gorgeous,” Harry murmurs. “Really, you’re just stunning.”

 

Louis preens a bit. Harry is a smart boy; Louis practically runs on praise and Yorkshire.

 

And really, Harry doesn’t look too shabby himself. He’s wearing a slightly transparent black button-down, the buttons nearly an afterthought, and Louis is salivating at the thought of tracing every single of those tattoos with his tongue. His hair is down and looks so soft and lovely, Louis is really looking forward to getting his hands in it _finally_ , even if they’re only snogging on the couch.

 

“It’s a good thing I’m not hiding you away tonight,” Harry continues, and well, _what?_

 

Louis is confused. He thought he was getting a romantic candlelight dinner, cooked by Harry Styles’ own hands. He was mostly expecting them to not even make it through dinner. He’d picked his outfit purely for initial impact and then how good it might look on Harry’s floor.

 

“We’re not staying in?” Louis squeaks.

 

Harry smiles. “I’ve got a bit of a surprise for you actually. Wanna wine and dine you; spoil you.”

 

Louis wavers. He sees his cozy romantic evening, with a couch and a bed and several convenient horizontal—and maybe a few not-so-horizontal surfaces—fading, but at the same time, he really can’t argue with the concept Harry’s suggesting.

 

“I love surprises,” Louis says.

 

“So do I,” Harry responds with a grin. He reaches over and slides one of those huge hands, warm and definitely big enough to send Louis’ heart into a rabbiting mess, over the curve of Louis’ hip, just where his red tee meets his tight black jeans. “I was especially surprised—and _pleased_ —to see this make an appearance.”

 

Louis tries really hard, but he can’t help his blush. “Didn’t want to disappoint.”

 

Harry leans in, leans _down_ really—which is a kink that Louis didn’t even think he had, but from the way his heart is pounding, his pulse going absolutely haywire, he most certainly has a size kink when it comes to Harry—and just nuzzles his nose into Louis’ neck, lips just teasing with the sensitive skin along the column of his neck. Louis takes a shuddering breath. Harry smells _so_ good, like pine forests and soft velvet and butter. “Couldn’t even if you tried,” Harry murmurs into Louis’ ear and he can’t help the shiver that rockets through him.

 

Louis feels his bones melt into jelly. He wants to sink into Harry and let them fall back through the doorway into Harry’s flat and not come out for a good forty eight hours. He wants Harry to dismantle him and put him back together.

 

The problem is that Harry is a fucking tease and just as Louis is about to sag into him, Harry pulls back, though he’s still keeping a mighty friendly grip on Louis’ hips. “We’ve got to go,” Harry groans a little, sounding positively pained as Louis glances as seductively up from underneath his eyelashes. He knows what this particular look does to men, and it _definitely_ affects Harry. There is absolutely no question of that, from the hot piercing look Harry shoots him. But he’s on a mission, apparently, and he lets go of Louis, one hand sliding down to tangle their fingers together.

 

It’s really nice. There’s no question of that. It’s just that there’s still a dull throb in his dick, and even though he had a nice long leisurely wank in the shower only a few hours ago, he still feels incredibly keyed up.

 

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” he asks as they head down the stairs to the street.

 

“Surprise,” Harry retorts with a dimpled grin. “But you’ll like it. _And_ it’s close.”

 

Louis mentally adds in at least a _few_ hours with a couch and a table and any other conveniently horizontal surface he can come up with. Surely if the restaurant is close to the flat, he can get Harry a little tipsy, then slyly suggest they have a nightcap at his place.

 

He’s still a bit deep in his nefarious plan when they turn a corner, he glances up and there’s _Sur Ma Langue_ , pretty much _the_ French restaurant in London—a restaurant that even _Louis_ , who knows pretty much zilch about fine dining, has heard of.

 

Glancing over at Harry, Louis is speechless at the stars sparkling out of his green eyes and the smile playing at the corner of his lips.

 

“ _Here_?” Louis exclaims. “You’re taking me to _Sur Ma Langue?_ ”

 

Harry shrugs, and now he’s the one blushing. “Don’t get too excited, I know a guy.”

 

“Harry, I’ve got to be honest.” Louis spares his t-shirt and jeans a brief look. “I’m not really dressed for this place.”

 

But Harry just shrugs. “Trust me. Like I said, I know a guy.”

 

It turns out that Harry is one hundred percent _not_ exaggerating knowing a guy. He does know a guy—the head sous chef, to be exact. It turns out they went to culinary school together, and he owes Harry what sounds like a whole bunch of favors. Louis shouldn’t be surprised, but he still is when they’re shown to a table that’s in the far back corner room, very private, and there’s candlelight everywhere.

 

There’s fat, chunky candles clustered in niches spread through the creamy walls, and wrought iron candelabras warming the corners of the room, and tiny tea lights scattered on the table set for two, their flickering wicks reflecting onto the china and crystal.

 

It’s a statement and Louis can’t quite catch his breath.

 

He can’t quite believe that all this is for him.

 

“Do you like it?” Harry’s voice is low and sweet and Louis can’t seem to find his.

 

Louis’ entire life, he’s had the rotten luck of always caring more, of always falling harder and faster and deeper. He spent his sixth form in love with a good friend he knew wasn’t gay. He let his ex-boyfriend Steve push and prod and coerce him out of his closet at exactly the wrong time, and then watched as Steve made it clear he’d never really cared about Louis—only about the publicity he could bring to his career.

 

Louis has known plenty of people who cared about him for what he can do, for the way he sings, for the songs he can write, for the privilege he can bring them with his fame or his money or his name, but he has never, ever believed that someone cared as much as he did.

 

He’d mostly come to grips with it; made it into a little joke. “Oh, here’s Louis, falling hard again.”

 

This time Louis feels like he’s not the only one launching off a cliff, flailing through the air, arms and legs cartwheeling madly, air rushing by, riding the exhilarating high of falling.

 

Harry’s right there with him, and it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever experienced.

 

“Yes.” It doesn’t feel like enough, but it’s all Louis has breath for, really.

 

Harry is a perfect gentleman—it’s been so long since Louis was on a real date, he’s almost forgot what that means. He pulls Louis’ chair out for him, and he’s this ridiculous, flawless combination of proper and seductive, letting just the tips of his fingers brush the small of his back as he makes sure the chair is at the right distance from the table.

 

It’s the wildest, sexiest thing Louis has ever experienced, and they still haven’t gotten to the food.

 

There’s no menus, first off, and Harry just smiles, dimple and all, when Louis asks what they’re eating. “The chef is preparing something special for us tonight,” he explains, and not for the first time, Louis genuinely wants to ask if it’s _right_ that all this is for him.

 

And it’s not that he doesn’t think he’s worth it. He knows he is. It’s just been so long—really, _forever_ —since anybody else acted like that was true. It makes Louis want to reach out and grab onto Harry and never let him go.

 

So Louis does exactly that, reaching for Harry’s hand and tangling their hands together, squeezing tight.

 

Harry flushes and looks so pleased that Louis can’t help but blush too. “You’re wonderful,” he tells Harry far more seriously than he usually talks on dates. He’s used to pulling out every flirtatious move in his rather extensive book, but with Harry, it almost feels as if he can slow down and not have to work so hard to impress him.

 

“I never thought I’d be sitting here, on a date with Louis Tomlinson,” Harry says equally seriously. It seems they’re both comfortable enough to break first date etiquette. “And definitely not already knowing you’re so much _more_ than how you were on TV.”

 

“More awful? More obnoxious? More pudgy? More incapable at culinary masterpieces?” Louis teases.

 

“All of the above,” Harry teases right back. It’s flirting, but it feels like flirting that you’d do twenty years in, when you’ve long since learned that impressing the other person is not only impossible, but completely unnecessary. Louis has wanted that comfort and slow burning firework exploding in his heart for so long and had nearly ruled out the possibility because of the kind of men he usually meets. But with Harry—Louis suddenly sees a world of potentials unfolding beautifully in front of his eyes.

 

“My hips,” Louis groans and gently untangles their fingers long enough to grab a hunk of bread, warm and deliciously fragrant from the basket. “But I don’t even care.”

 

“You shouldn’t,” Harry says, tilting his head and appraising him. “More to hold onto.”

 

Louis nearly chokes on his bread. “Here I think you’re being all polite and gooey and romantic, and then you go and do that,” he insists. “It’s . . .well. . .it’s distracting.”

 

Harry beams. “I’ll have to keep doing it then. Besides,” Harry continues offhandedly, “it’s nice that I’ll be able to cook for you. I want to feed you all the time.”

 

Louis glances up from where he is generously buttering his bread. The butter smells heavenly—so good in fact that Louis is very seriously contemplating eating it without any bread whatsoever.

 

“And yet here we are,” Louis points out.

 

“There’ll be lots of opportunities to feed you,” Harry says very confidently and for once in his life, Louis feels not an ounce of shame for being a sure thing. He’s more than happy to be a sure thing if Harry is involved.

 

The waiter comes over, and formally presents a little round plate with some sort of brown substance on it. Louis frowns when they’ve left. “What’s this?”

 

“Pâté?” Harry asks with an absolutely delicious little French accent that makes Louis melt like butter.

 

But Louis still glances at it dubiously. “What’s that?”

 

“You’ll like it. Trust me.” Harry carefully selects a thin slice of bread from the basket and spreads a thick layer of the brown goop on it.

 

Then Harry’s leaning over the table and _okay_ , Louis is willing to try just about anything if Harry’s going to feed it to him.

 

It’s rich and soft and an explosion of flavor in his mouth. Louis can’t help but groan a little. Harry looks very smug.

 

“Like it?” Harry asks, as if he doesn’t already know how delicious it is. Bastard.

 

For a split second, Louis seriously considers saying he hates it, but then he won’t be able to eat any more. It’s not very hard to push his pride out of the way and nod shyly.

 

“Thought you might,” Harry murmurs conspiratorially, already reaching into the basket for more bread. By the time the waiter is back with wine, they’ve polished off the entire plate of pâté and Louis seriously considering casually mentioning to the waiter how stingy of a portion that was. But he trusts that whatever to come will probably be just as delicious.

 

“So tell me why you decided to become a baker,” Louis suggests, sipping at his white wine. It’s light and very crisp; the perfect complement to the rich food. He feels very spoiled and he’s loving every moment of this.

 

“I actually fell into it,” Harry admits. “I needed a job and my local bakery was hiring. But I fell in love with it right away. The early mornings, the feel of the dough underneath my hands, the satisfaction of creating something delicious out of such simple ingredients. There’s a magic to baking, I think.”

 

“Just really flour and water, yeah?” Louis asks. He’s never baked something a day in his life. But he wants to now, if only to maybe experience a fraction of the passion that’s ripe in Harry’s eyes.

 

He says as much and Harry just throws his head back and laughs long and hard, leaving the gorgeous column of his neck exposed. Louis wants to leave a deep red love bite right along his jawline.

 

“You don’t have the patience for it,” Harry admits. “Baking definitely isn’t for anyone. Besides if we can get you cooking, I’ll consider my job well done.”

 

“If I learn _anything_ , it’ll be solely because of you,” Louis admits.

 

“Don’t sell yourself short, Lou,” Harry retorts. “You’re more capable than you give yourself credit for. Besides, nobody expects you to be a wonder in the kitchen. You’re a singer and a songwriter.”

 

“A washed up pop act, more like,” Louis inserts wryly and Harry just frowns.

 

“What? It’s true,” Louis can’t help but insist. It’s not exactly true. But it is a little bit true.

 

“So what happened?” Harry asks.

 

They’ve broken just about every first date rule Louis has. Normally he’d never discuss anything so non-frivolous and incapable of leading to more flirtation, but Harry actually seems very interested. So Louis tells him.

 

It takes the whole salad course for Louis to explain about how much of a public relations nightmare coming out of the closet is. And how so many artists have way more stringent guidelines built into their contracts, but he found a loophole and used it, despite all the advice to wait. Harry listens intently and just nods as Louis talks. Louis is so grateful at how kind Harry is that he doesn’t even make a peep of protest at the salad, just is silently and pleasantly surprised that anything comprised entirely of vegetables could be so tasty.

 

“What you’re saying,” Harry says slowly and thoughtfully, “is that it wasn’t _that_ you came out, it was _when_ you came out.”

 

Louis nods. “Basically I was still too young and too cute.”

 

 “Both of which are still very true, I might add,” Harry says with a cute little smirk.

 

“Thank you very much. But yeah, it didn’t help. My next album didn’t sell, my label dropped me and now Alberto and I are shopping my new one—or _will_ be shopping my new one, when it’s done.”

 

“Alberto?” Harry asks, as the waiter clears their salad plates.

 

“My new agent,” Louis says proudly. “He’s quite good. Very respected in the industry. Got me on _Kitchen Wars_ to try to ‘diversify my image.’”

 

Harry reaches for Louis’ hands again and he happily lets Harry wrap his fingers around his. Harry is a great hand-holder. Very promising for the future. It’s been a very long time since Louis let himself imagine hand-holding and white picket fences but that train has officially left the station.

 

Harry’s thumb rubs the sensitive cleft between Louis’ pointer finger and thumb. He shivers a little as the rough callouses caress his skin. Squirming a bit in his chair, Louis tries not to imagine those hands on other parts of his body and fails miserably.

 

“How’d your recording session go?” Harry asks.

 

Louis doesn’t really want to tell him that he spent about thirty minutes on refining an older song that he isn’t convinced is very good and about three hours spouting complete bullshit lyrics about green eyes and dimples and broad shoulders.

 

“It’s a process,” Louis finally admits. “A tough one, sometimes.”

 

“I feel that way with new recipes sometimes. I tweak them for months and months, and nothing ever seems right. You’ll get there.” Harry squeezes Louis’ hand reassuringly.

 

Louis realizes then that their passions really aren’t all that different. They both create things for public consumption—Louis has his music and Harry his bread and pastries. Louis feels another bit of himself shift into place, a building block of his heart settling in where it belongs.

 

Normally he’d be terrified that this isn’t going to work out. That he’s getting in too deep, too fast. But it all feels so easy and so bloody _comfortable_ with Harry. Like their hearts have known each other forever and their minds are just now catching up.

 

When the main course comes, a delicious Dijon chicken with little perfect potatoes roasted in the wine and garlic and chicken drippings, they finish off the bottle of wine and start another. Louis feels drunk, not necessarily on alcohol, but on wonderful food and even better company.

 

“I wish I could cook like this,” Harry moans around a mouthful of chicken.

 

“I thought you all cooked like this,” Louis protests with a teasing smile. “Only reason I was considering keeping you around.”

 

“No. _No_. I wish, really. I’m a baker, like I said. I went to cooking school. I could hold my own at most restaurants, _probably._ But I can’t cook like this.”

 

“Damn.”

 

“Don’t worry, darling,” Harry says with an adorably lopsided grin, “I’m plenty good at other things.”

 

“Like baking?” Louis asks, trying to ignore the way his heart is racing in his chest and how tight his jeans feel—and not from the food he’s been devouring all night.

 

“Sure, that too,” Harry says, the corners of his lips turning up into a rather slyer smile.

 

The waiter comes to clear away the plates. “Dessert?” he asks.

 

Harry glances over at Louis. Louis hesitates. He definitely wants dessert. He’s just not entirely sure which variety of dessert he’s more desperate for.

 

His hesitation is apparently all the confirmation Harry needs. “To go,” he tells the waiter decisively enough that Louis suddenly feels a bit fuzzy. All the blood in his entire body has rushed to his cock and when he stands up, it’s going to be obvious that he’s hard and ready to go.

 

It takes them ten minutes to get dessert which should be plenty of time for Louis to get himself together. Unfortunately it doesn’t happen.

 

It’s just that it’s _very_ tough to calm down because even as they’re making harmless small talk, chatting easily about the different contestants on _Kitchen Wars_ , Louis’ mind is literally one long running dirty fantasy—Harry on his knees in front of him, mouthing at the tip of his dick through his pants, glancing up, his eyes wide and green and as innocent as they are dirty; Louis in Harry’s lap, cock inside of him, rocking relentlessly against his prostate as he sucks the love bite he’s been dying to give Harry all night right into his chiseled jawline; Harry fucking Louis’ mouth, holding him down, making him take it, wrists bound together behind his back as it slides so big and hard between his lips.

 

The waiter brings their dessert, boxed up. “Pots de crème, chocolate of course, with a white chocolate ganache,” he says, and then disappears, leaving them to the rest of their evening and Louis to his imminent detonation.

 

Louis is a volcano. One touch, and he’s probably going to explode.

 

Harry must notice Louis’ panicked expression at the thought of leaving and he smiles. “Don’t worry, I’m . . uh. . .plenty excited myself.”

 

Louis’ temperature ratchets up another few degrees. He swallows hard, his mouth dry as a bone, and licks his lips. Imagines Harry’s soft, plush mouth on them. “Okay. It’s a quick walk, yeah?”

 

Harry nods, and he looks just about as eager as Louis feels.

 

When Harry gets up, Louis feels zero shame in ogling how hot and ready he looks in his tight jeans. Not that Louis is any less obvious. It’s a good thing that while they were eating dinner, dusk has fallen and it's grown dark outside, offering up a bit of protection from prying eyes.

 

The walk to Harry’s flat feels like it’s over before it even begins. The blood in Louis’ veins goes from a slight simmer to a full on boil as they walk up the stairs and Harry unlocks the door.

 

Louis doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t think. He just acts.

 

He shoves Harry back up against the door. He’s smaller but it doesn’t seem to matter as their mouths meet in a kiss that melts all the nerve endings in Louis’ body. It’s hot and sweet and _longing_ , almost, as if they both spent the entire dinner wishing they could get their mouths back on each other, and now it’s finally happened.

 

Harry licks determinedly into his mouth and Louis can’t help the long, throaty moan he makes. He takes advantage of the momentary break in the madness only to delve right back in, licking and sucking alongside Harry’s criminally chiseled jawline, right to the spot he’s been fantasizing about since he spotted it. Harry’s skin is equally salty and sweet, delicious really—the perfect finish to a truly wonderful meal—and it turns out that the spot is even better than Louis could have even imagined because when he finally hits it, Harry’s knees actually buckle.

 

So, that’s handy. It turns out that Harry loves getting a good love bite as much as Louis loves to give one. Louis wants to fucking eat him alive. And so he does, wrenching his mouth off and admiring the intense red of the mark he’s made before diving back to Harry’s sinful, plush mouth. The kiss goes from passionate to insatiable and Louis barely even registers when Harry exercises his strength and flips them easily. The back of Louis’ head hits the door with a solid thunk but the pain barely registers. He’s too awestruck watching Harry sink to his knees in front of him, an image practically ripped out of his fantasy from earlier.

 

Harry wastes absolutely no time, hands on the button of Louis’ trousers, unzipping them and pulling them down like he’s waited all the time he can.

 

Like he’d seen a vision from Louis’ mind, Harry is right there, nuzzling at the hard cock in his pants, sending little bursts of sensation sparking through his body. Louis slurs out a pained plea for _more_ , _god, please,_ because Harry’s teasing him and he’s desperate for more.

 

Harry groans and then suddenly there’s no fabric between his hot wet mouth and Louis’ dick—only damp air. Louis gasps and strains against the desire to just buck up into Harry’s mouth. Normally he likes a good bit of teasing himself, and in a more restrained mood, he might be the one to taunt Harry with what he clearly wants so much, but Louis is undone by the evening and by Harry and just pleads for Harry to do something, _anything_.

 

Harry listens and when he slicks his tongue up the underside, then sinks down, tonguing at the head, wrapping his cock up in the most sinful mouth that Louis has ever been privileged to enjoy, it’s pure bliss.

 

It doesn’t take long for Harry to develop a devastating rhythm, giving Louis everything he didn’t even know he wanted. Then his hands creep back to Louis’ bum, kneading and caressing his cheeks. There’s only the slightest hint of a damp finger nudging at his hole before Louis loses it, suddenly and completely. His life flashes before him in a blinding flash of white light and he dies a little, feeling only a tiny niggling shame for his lack of blowjob etiquette as he shoots come down Harry’s throat.

 

But Harry doesn’t look even the slightest bit annoyed. He only reluctantly pulls off, licking the last of it from his lips and gives Louis the most scorching, devastating look from his position on his knees.

 

Louis is dazed and still horny, the aftershocks of his orgasm still pulsing through his veins and he only vaguely registers Harry moving to his feet and grabbing Louis’ hand, leading them through the flat to the bedroom.

 

There’s a bed. That’s literally all Louis registers about it. There’s a bed and then he’s on it and Harry is crawling up him like a man who’s starving to death and Louis is a banquet feast.

 

Harry nuzzles into the damp spot on Louis’ neck and even manages to _breathe_ sexily into Louis’ ear. “Wanna ride you, baby,” he moans, rutting against Louis’ hip, hard and insistent and even though Louis is still a bit dazed, it seems that’s all it takes for arousal to start fizzing through his veins again.

 

But he’s not sixteen still, and Harry seems to be pretty respectful of that fact so they kiss for a long time, Harry grinding alongside Louis’ hardening prick. He’s hard long before they can possibly tear their mouths off each other, panting helplessly as Louis stares into Harry’s eyes.

 

“Want you,” Louis moans as Harry executes a particularly filthy grind. “Wanna fuck you.”

 

Harry throws his head back and he looks so exceptionally gorgeous that Louis can’t really believe his luck. At some point in this evening, he is going to pinch himself and wake up.

 

But it seems like that’s not even close to happening now. Harry reluctantly leaves Louis’ side for a moment, to gather condoms and lube and shed his clothes as Louis watches hungrily, eyes eating up every bit of skin that he uncovers, littered with tattoos and damp with sweat.

 

“Gorgeous,” Louis breathes out unsteadily. “Fucking gorgeous.”

 

Harry blushes as he slicks up his fingers and Louis makes a sound of protest. “What, you wanna?” Harry asks shyly, and Louis nods, eagerly.

 

Harry’s got a little peach of a bum, small and compact and surprisingly curvaceous for its size. Harry’s finger is already tucked inside and once Louis’ wets his own fingers, he slides one alongside, gasping a little at how tight and hot Harry feels, how insanely perfect around him. He can’t wait to get his dick in there. Can’t wait to make Harry look even more wrecked than he already does, grinding back on their fingers.

 

His dick is hard and purple, precome bubbling at the tip, and it bobs between them. Louis leans over and licks at the wetness and loves how loud Harry is when he sucks the head into his mouth.

 

“Gonna come, gonna come,” Harry pants. “Wanna come around your cock.”

 

Louis wants that too. Wants that more than he wants to take his next breath. He carefully slides another finger in and gives it a few experimental thrusts, making sure that all Harry feels when he finally gets where he wants to be is pure pleasure.

 

“Ready,” Harry moans, and Louis pulls his fingers out, reaching for the condom. His fingers shake as he slides on the condom and gives himself an extra layer of slickness. He wants this to be mind-blowing; wants Harry to feel just as good as he made Louis feel.

 

Wants to make Harry feel even _better_.

 

Harry sinks down on his dick like he’s born to it, his rather ungainly body discovering a new grace as he slowly slides down, working his way slowly but steadily down onto Louis’ cock.

 

He’s so tight and so hot, Louis screws his eyes shut so he doesn’t come embarrassingly quick. Harry lets out a long drawn out moan and Louis tries counting to ten as he bottoms out. The problem isn’t just the way Harry feels around him, but the visuals—his abs contracting as he rises back up and sinks back down again, curls bouncing, eyes completely blissed out. Louis shivers and tries to snatch back his self-control, which pretty much disappeared the moment his lips touched Harry’s for the first time.

 

Louis’ hands move to Harry’s hips and grip him tight, probably tight enough to leave bruises, but Harry only groans dirtier, filthier, spouting phrases that make Louis’ eyes roll back in his head as he takes his cock deep and hard. He angles his hips, trying to catch Harry’s prostate and he knows the moment he hits it, Harry’s mouth opening in a silent scream of pleasure. He hits it once, then twice more and Harry’s gone, ropes of come shooting from his cock, painting them both.

 

Harry clenching down is all it takes Louis to lose it again, shuddering helplessly as he grinds deep and fills the condom.

 

“Fuck.” Harry slumps forward onto Louis’ chest, and they’re both wet with come and sweat and lube and Louis can’t even find it in himself to care. This was one of the most overwhelmingly insane sexual encounters of his life. Maybe even the best shag of his life. And it was literally the very first time. If he could, he’d probably get hard considering where they could even go from here.

 

\---

 

Twenty minutes later, they’re finally cleaned up and cuddling again, this time on the couch with Harry’s arms wrapped tightly around Louis. He’s got the dessert container open on his lap and he’s spoon feeding heavenly bites of chocolate mousse into Louis’ waiting mouth.

 

“To die for,” Louis moans, lips closing around the spoon, refusing to let it go as he tries to clean every last bit off the plastic.

 

He finally relinquishes the spoon and Harry steals a bite, his expression thoughtful as he carefully tastes it. “It’s good,” he finally admits. “Very good. I can make better though.”

 

That gets Louis’ attention. “You are absolutely shitting me. That is a tiny bit of heaven in a cup. There _is_ nothing better.”

 

Harry shrugs rather smugly. “I can think of a few things.” He taps the spoon on the very tip of Louis’ nose, leaving a speck of mousse behind. He leans in, cleans it off with a quick lap of his tongue. “Well, _one_ thing specifically.”

 

Louis blushes. He doesn’t know what to say. Then he does. “This was the best date I’ve ever had,” he says. Telling Harry the truth doesn’t feel like an uncomfortable admission, but a secret confession, whispered underneath a nest of blankets. Except there’s no blankets, there’s only Harry, and he’s keeping him plenty warm.

 

“Me too.” Harry’s grip tightens a little, as if he’s got such precious cargo he can’t bear to let it slip away. As if Louis would. As if Louis _could_. “Gonna be hard to top this one, to be honest.”

 

Louis giggles. Harry is smiling. He doesn’t exactly look worried.

 

Louis isn’t worried at all. They’re just getting started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr post, reblog if you so desire!](http://bethaboolou.tumblr.com/post/128663662685/bethaboolou-taste-on-my-tongue-by-bethaboo)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So incredibly sorry this took so long. I don't really have a good excuse, other than I got married and things got crazy for awhile. 
> 
> Thank you so much to [bear mustard](http://bearmustard.tumblr.com/), who did the world's most efficient beta on this chapter.

Louis’ phone rings way too early the next morning.

 

“What? Who? When?” Harry moans, his head buried deep into his pillow. “Just make it stop.”

 

“Sorry, it’s Alberto,” Louis apologizes as he tries to hit the accept button through mostly-closed eyes. He shifts away from Harry and begins to move to get out of bed, but Harry’s arm shoots out and wraps firmly around his middle.

 

“No, stay,” Harry mumbles into the pillow.

 

“What?” Louis barks into the phone, trying to resettle back into a comfortable position. If Harry doesn’t want him leaving, then he’s sure as hell not going anywhere.

 

“I’ve got you a meeting with Epic,” Alberto says, and Louis doesn’t even care how smug his agent sounds, he only cares about what he’s saying.

 

“How?” Louis squeaks.

 

“I sent them that new song,” Alberto says. “You know, the embarrassing one.”

 

“Oh god.” Louis’ head falls into his hands and he can’t even properly breathe. “And _that’s_ why they want to have a meeting?”  


“They loved it. Said something about what a surprising Ed Sheeran vibe you have.”

 

“I don’t have an Ed Sheeran vibe,” Louis says blankly. “I can barely play the guitar.”

 

“It doesn’t matter. They loved your voice. How much it’s improved. They loved your writing. Loved the romance of it. You’re basically in. There’s great buzz about _Kitchen Wars_. They want to piggyback on that. Hammer out a contract. Announce it fast.”

 

There’s so much good to focus on in what Alberto said, but Louis can only hear one thing.

 

_Fast_.

 

Things don’t tend to happen fast, at least in the music industry— _real_ things, anyway. Lots of fake garbage that doesn’t pan out, that all happens plenty fast. But not anything lasting.

 

And after what he went through before, Louis wants lasting more than he wants to breathe, sometimes.

 

“What’s the angle?” Louis asks

 

Alberto sighs. “It’s real, I swear. They really love you. Fast is just about the timing with _Kitchen Wars_. You’ve got to trust me here. I wouldn’t steer you wrong.”

 

Louis doesn’t believe he would. He also doesn’t believe that Alberto could be fooled into thinking something is a sure thing when it isn’t.

 

“I guess that means I’m going to the meeting,” Louis says. He doesn’t really know whether to be nervous or ecstatic.

 

Alberto relays the details of time and place and hangs up.

 

Louis falls back against the bed, nuzzling into Harry’s curls and not even caring that doing so probably breaks about half the rules that exist when you first start dating someone.

 

Staying over probably breaks the other half, but he hadn’t even hesitated. Frankly, he hadn’t wanted to leave, and Harry had seemed even less enthused about the idea.

 

“Stay,” he’d begged Louis, and Louis had been powerless to resist the pleading look in those green eyes, and the way Harry’s hands had drifted over his bare skin as they’d cuddled on the couch.

 

 “When do you have to leave?” Harry asks now, voice still mostly muffled by pillow.

 

“Soon,” Louis says. “I’ve got to get back to my flat. Change. Get ready for this meeting. Whatever it brings.”

 

“It’s what you wanted though.” Harry carefully rotates until they’re facing each other.

 

Louis sighs. “Yeah, but it’s hard to know when something’s for real. This doesn’t seem like it’s for real. It’s too fast.”

 

“Then make it real,” Harry says softly.

 

“It’s not that easy.”

 

“I never said it was easy,” Harry insists. “The best things, the things you really want, they almost never are.”

 

“What about this?” Louis asks, stroking a loose strand of hair away from Harry’s face. “This feels so easy.”

 

And it does, lying in Harry’s bed together, skin on skin, wrapped up in each other like they’ve never been anywhere else.

 

“This is special,” Harry says so quietly, like he too doesn’t want to disturb the cocoon they’ve created for themselves here.

 

Louis wants to tell him that _he’s_ special, that he already cares so much, surely far more than he should at this stage, but he’s already broken so many of those generally accepted, and no doubt wise, rules, so he doesn’t. Instead he leans in and brushes a single, tender kiss on the tip of Harry’s very cute nose. He hopes it says everything that he doesn’t think he can yet.

 

\---

 

Alberto wasn’t kidding when he said the meeting was a mere formality.

 

The Epic people practically fall over themselves in their eagerness to talk about a contract. Louis doesn’t know if Alberto has prepped them in advance, but they still say all the right things. All the things Louis has secretly wished for years had been part of his old contract—freedom and choice and true support. There’s no unpleasant strings tying him up in knots. Not yet anyway.

 

And Alberto promises Louis there will be clauses to prevent the strings from ever tying him up again.

 

They agree for him to go into the studio with one of their favored producers, who happens to be someone that Louis has worked with before.

 

By the end of the day, as Louis is relaxing in bed, he feels like he can genuinely text Harry and tell him that things not only went well at the meeting, they went _brilliantly_.

 

**So happy for you, Lou** is the text waiting for Louis the next morning on his phone. **Can you meet for lunch? Want to see you before filming.**

 

They’re filming again in two days, and Louis has been so preoccupied with the developing Epic contract that he surprisingly hasn’t agonized yet over seeing Harry. Of course he _wants_ to. Now that he thinks about it, he’s feeling a bit piqued that he hadn’t even _noticed_.

 

Character development, Louis tells himself.

 

**Late afternoon tea? I’ve got meetings this morning til after lunch.**

 

Harry responds right away and his eagerness is a balm to Louis’ confusion.

 

**Perfect. Meet you at the bakery?**

 

Louis has never been to the bakery Harry works at, which is most definitely a situation that could use correction so he agrees readily.

 

\----

 

The bakery where Harry works takes up almost a whole block—it’s sprawling and very busy, if the constantly revolving door with a steady stream of customers is any indication.

 

Harry hasn’t talked much about the bakery where he works. They mostly talk about the bakery Harry would like to own someday. It’s small, tucked away in a corner of London and little old ladies bring their dogs to afternoon tea and students spend the afternoons camped out in comfortable chairs with endless cups of espresso and the homey, comforting pastries that Harry wants to bake.

 

This modern, sprawling behemoth of a building doesn’t feel much like it has much in common with Harry’s dream and Louis can’t help but swear to himself with renewed resolve that now that his dream is well on its way to repair, they’re going to win _Kitchen Wars_ to secure Harry’s.

 

He has no real illusions about what he can bring to a relationship—he can be bitchy and whiny, more than difficult at points—but he can give Harry this.

 

With his resolve burning in his veins, Louis shoves his aviator sunglasses onto his head, careful not to disturb his quiff, and walks in the front door of the bakery.

 

It’s a hurricane of sight and sound. The scent of freshly baked bread and pastries winding around him like a lover—like _Harry_ in fact—and the burst of colors in the pastry case. A million jeweled shades of _macarons_ , and not those heavy, thick coconut cookies that Americans like to eat, but the perfect, delicate shells filled with delicious concoctions that Louis associates so strongly with the romance of Paris. There’s vermilion and emerald and ruby and bright garish orange. He wants to taste all of them.

 

Tarts filled with strawberries and raspberries and blackberries, scattered carelessly but flawlessly over the sheen of vanilla-flecked pastry cream.

 

He’s so entranced by the outrageous displays, each more fantastic than the next, that he doesn’t even see Harry until he’s leaning over the case, elbows resting gently on the glass, a smug smile on his beautiful face.

 

“Like what you see?” he asks so impudently that Louis wonders how could he have gotten so lucky to find someone so in tune with his own sense of humor.

 

Louis flutters his eyelashes and stares right at Harry. He’s got his hair pulled up in a high bun, showcasing his incredible jawline, and the green of his eyes rival the perfect macarons in the case.

 

“Yeah,” he says, not once taking his gaze off Harry, “I really do.”

 

Harry giggles. Because it’s funny and because he had to know he was setting up Louis. It’s cheesy as hell really, but Louis can’t be bothered to give a fuck.

 

He’s just really in quite deep right now.

 

“Lemme grab us some tea and a plate,” Harry says. “Why don’t you find us a table?”

 

It’s a cavernous room, really, nothing like the cozy, comfortable vision that Harry’s drawn for Louis. But Louis still manages to find a quiet corner, and is just settling down in the comfortable chair when Harry shows up with a tray.

 

“Black,  right?” Harry asks as he slides a white cup and saucer in front of Louis.

 

Louis begins to nod but is distracted by the incredible plate of confections Harry deposits in the middle of the table.

 

“A little of everything,” Harry explains as he takes a seat across from Louis. “A few _macarons_. These are lime and orange, lemon and thyme. Chocolate cherry.”  


Louis’ mouth waters.

 

“And some tarts, I saw you eyeing those,” Harry continues with a smirk. “Strawberry passionfruit and blackberry orange.”

 

“It looks incredible,” Louis says, and it’s an understatement. “Did you bake all this?”

 

Harry looks surprised. “Of course. I told you I did most of the pastry here.”

 

“I’m just . . . _impressed_ ,” Louis confesses.

 

“I told you I could bake; that I went to culinary school.”

 

It’s true, Harry did. And Louis has seen Harry cook during their first week of competition, but watching him assemble that fairly simple burger is nothing like the jewel-like beauty and perfection of what’s shining on the plate in front of him now. These are works of _art_.

 

Louis is flustered. He doesn’t feel inferior; if he was going to feel inferior over kitchen skills, that ship sailed quite a bit of time ago, but he’d still felt _somewhat_ equal in that he and Harry have both made a career out of creation.

 

As it turns out, it’s really tough to equate the perfection in front of him to some cheesy pop songs that he’s had a hand in writing—even those less-cheesy pop songs that he _longs_ to write feel inferior.

 

“Looking around,” Louis can’t help but lean over and admit in a hushed tone, “I just don’t see why you’d ever want to leave this place. Everything is so bloody beautiful.”

 

Harry looks extremely amused. “Oh, it sure _looks_ it alright, but I don’t want to make this sort of thing.” Harry gestures to the plate of jeweled _macarons_ and the flawless tarts.

 

Louis shouldn’t gape, but he kind of does. “I mean,” Harry continues, a trifle quicker than before, his voice still as slow as maple syrup on a chilly afternoon, “I want to create beautiful things. But none of this, not a crumb out of place, cold perfection. I want something you don’t want to ruin by eating it. Something you can’t wait to sink your teeth into. Something _warm_ and sweet.”

 

“Harry,” Louis can’t help but admit, “that’s the greatest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

 

Harry flushes and carelessly picks up an aubergine colored _macaron_. “I suppose you want to make serious songs, then?” he asks as casually as he’s just devoured his _macaron._

 

The problem is Louis doesn’t really know what he wants to create. Maybe what he’s really envious of is Harry’s certainty.

 

“Not serious no,” Louis says, picking at the napkin next to his porcelain saucer. “But important, somehow. Even if the importance is just making people happy.”

 

“You’ll figure it out.” Harry seems so sure. Louis wishes he had a tenth of Harry’s confidence—but the thought of Harry realizing that is too awful to contemplate, so Louis does what he does best. He changes the subject.

 

“We should really be figuring out this week’s plan,” Louis inserts.

 

The look in Harry’s eyes tells Louis that he isn’t as good as he thinks he is at disseminating, but Harry is wonderful and Harry lets it go.

 

“I wish I could figure out what the theme is. Have some sort of idea going on,” Harry says rather wistfully.

 

Louis takes a sip of his tea which is strong and hot. “But watching you in action is so inspiring,” Louis teases.

 

Harry quirks an eyebrow. “Watching me flounder around with no idea what to cook is inspiring?”  


“Absolutely. I enjoy every second of it.”

 

“You should really enjoy this week then,” Harry says wryly.

 

“Please,” Louis scoffs. “You’re so calm and collected. And here I am, probably flying off the handle because I’ve been forced to chop something or actually use the oven.”

 

“Hey, you know how to use the oven now,” Harry drawls out, but his green eyes are sparkling, and the air between them is crackling with tension and chemistry and the fact that Louis is pretty much going out of his mind with the need to touch Harry _right now_.

 

Unfortunately, Louis is dumb enough to have scheduled their date at Harry’s place of work. He grumbles to himself.

 

“Who do you think is our biggest competition?” Louis asks, pointedly ignoring Harry’s statement about the oven. He supposes he _theoretically_ knows how to work the oven controls, but in the heat of the moment, nothing is ever certain.

 

“I think Liam and Zayn will make a big comeback this week.”

 

Louis devours half a strawberry passionfruit tart and moans at how good the fresh fruit tastes in combination with the cold, decadent pastry cream. “Liam doesn’t use butter. How could he possibly stand a chance?” He gestures with the tart. “I mean, this would never taste amazing without butter.”

 

Clearly, Harry is both flattered and amused. He giggles, which Louis has figured out he tends to do when he’s uncomfortable with a compliment. Or sexually aroused. Louis shifts in his chair a little and prays the hard line of his cock isn’t so obvious in today’s pair of jeans.

 

Harry is just _really_ arousing, okay?

 

“We probably won’t be baking tarts though,” Harry points out very rationally.

 

“But if we did,” Louis retorts with a sly grin, “this tart would taste like utter shit.”

 

Harry laughs long and loud then, the sound echoing through the open bakery like a rather triumphant bell. Louis tries to find something every day that he’s proud of; today, he’s most proud of the way he can make Harry laugh like that. That’s an accomplishment that he doesn’t think will ever get old.

 

When Harry’s finally managed to contain himself, he leans in towards Louis’, his voice dropped down to a hushed whisper. “Let’s get out of here,” Harry says, and Louis can’t help but catch the way Harry’s gaze catches on his lips and collarbones and then drifts lower. Maybe you _can_ see Louis’ dick in these pants.

 

“Never going to say no,” Louis whispers, but Harry’s already stood up and he probably doesn’t hear. Which is just as well because nobody needs to know just how far gone Louis is. Most of all Harry.

 

\---

 

A few scant minutes later, Harry’s got Louis pressed up against the alley wall outside the bakery, the red bricks digging a little into Louis’ skin through his t-shirt, but the roughness contrasted with the honeyed sweet pleasure of Harry’s mouth is exceedingly hot. Louis feels lightheaded, head tilting back to rest against the wall as Harry’s lips coast up his neck.

 

“Harry,” Louis half-moans, half-pants. “Alley. _Public_.”

 

Because if anyone walks by the entrance to this alley, they’ll see Harry’s big body pinning Louis to the wall, his hands determinedly pushing up his t-shirt, the rough pads of his fingers stroking down his abs and lingering at the waist of his pants, thumbs dipping under the fabric, reverently caressing the sensitive skin over Louis’ hipbones.

 

If anyone walks by, they’ll see Louis’ fingers buried in Harry’s curls, tugging them hard enough to make Harry moan into the soft crook of Louis’ neck, where he’s licking and sucking a bruise that’ll be hell for the _Kitchen Wars_ makeup artist.

 

Louis’ cock is an impossibly, insistently hard and throbbing reminder that it’s been days since he’s been able to be with Harry, to touch and be touched. It doesn’t even feel like desire anymore, but a white hot need that, once they’re together, burns through him, erasing every single good intention that Louis has ever had.

 

Thus, why he’s currently rubbing his entire body against Harry’s larger one, even though they’re in full view of the entrance of the alley.

 

Harry’s lips disappear from Louis’ skin for a second, and Louis, who’d let his eyes drift shut, vision hazy with heat, refocuses on Harry.

 

Sometimes it’s hard to look at Harry directly. He’s too much up close—skin so smooth and pale, touched with just a hint of a heavier cream, freckles dotting his nose and a jawline so sharp it makes Louis weak in the knees. It’s easy to miss how Harry is more than a sum of his parts when the parts are so extraordinary. Those jewel-like eyes, the pillowy pink lips, the rich dark of his hair tumbling to his shoulders. Louis doesn’t like to think of himself as particularly stuck on the surface of people, but when the surface looks like this, it’s a bit hard to move past.

 

It’s like Harry hears him. “Gorgeous,” Harry murmurs as they stare at each other, the air thick and syrupy with heat. Louis’ grip on Harry’s curls tightens. “Exactly what I was thinking,” Louis says.

 

Harry’s hands slide up Louis’s body, from his hips to his chest to his shoulders. He’s never really liked his rather curvy, compact body. Nobody’s ever really appreciated it before, but Harry feels like he’s making a study of the curves, tracing their undulating lines with his fingertips. It’s like Harry wants to memorize him, and it’s a heady thought, that Harry might be as deep as Louis is.

 

“Come to mine tonight,” Louis can’t help but spit out in a bit of a rush. He’s desperate and it feels like Harry is a bit desperate himself.

 

And maybe he is. Louis wants to believe it, even as Harry shakes his head reluctantly no. “I can’t. Long shift today. Long shift tomorrow.” He sounds proper sad about it, but in the end, the result is the same: Louis probably losing his mind from unfulfilled lust, a phenomenon that he thought he’d long outgrown.

 

“Sometimes I feel like we’re back at school,” Louis confesses, the words leaving his lips before he can shove them back inside his mouth. “A few little stolen moments here and there when nobody’s looking. Wanking until I’m sick to death of my right hand because there’s never enough time.”

 

Harry cocks his head and gives Louis an intrigued look. “Was that what school was like for you? Hiding things?”

 

Louis tenses. “You’re meant to focus more on the wanking until I’m sick part,” he jokes, but it doesn’t come out right.

 

Harry’s gaze softens impossibly and swimming in those warm green eyes, flecks of gold and hazel hypnotizing him, Louis feels like maybe Harry _is_ as deep as Louis. Feels like maybe Harry does understand what he means, how the impossible longing he feels can’t ever be sated by the little moments they snatch for themselves.

 

It’s possible even if Louis gorged himself on Harry, he’d still never get enough. It’s a thought that’s exhilarating and terrifying, all at the same time. Louis desperately wants to write it all down, but he can’t seem to find the words to properly express it.

 

So he just kisses Harry instead, trying to pour everything he feels into a simple meeting of lips. It’s slick and hot, but it’s slow and tender, and when they finally part, breathless, there’s a look he’s never seen before in Harry’s eyes.

 

It looks like maybe everything Louis can’t seem to say.

 

“We’ll make more time next week,” Harry insists, and it seems more like a vow than a promise.

 

“I’m gonna hold you to that.”

 

Harry’s hands drop from Louis’ body and hang at his sides. Louis feels the loss of his touch so acutely, he nearly reaches out and drags them back. But he doesn’t. He’s probably already revealed enough today about his own impossible-to-control feelings. It’s really hard to care about falling too hard and too fast when it feels so damn good.

 

They kiss one last time, Harry practically wrenching himself away from Louis at the end, as if he can’t bear to stop. When he walks away after a whispered goodbye, he doesn’t look back, and Louis wants to believe if it’s because if he glanced back at Louis, he’d not be able to leave at all.

 

At least that’s the way Louis feels.

 

He seems to be positively overflowing with feelings, as when he gets home, he digs out his guitar and the ragged notepad he’d been scribbling the lyrics of the embarrassingly sappy song into.

 

A few hours later, he’s developing a few rather painful blisters from the guitar strings, but he’s still got what he thinks _could_ be a pretty killer song. It’s sentimental as hell, of course, but after his conversation with Harry today, Louis is beginning to wonder if that’s such a bad thing.

 

Unfortunately he can’t exactly ask Harry because the song is basically a big sappy cliché of how hard Louis is falling for him.

 

Before he can chicken out, he does a quick recording of himself playing through the song and he sends it to Alberto. He falls onto his bed fully clothed a few moments later and falls asleep almost instantly.

 

\---

 

Louis wakes up to two text messages.

 

The first he opens is from Alberto. It’s an entire set of exclamation points. Louis props himself up against his pillow and can’t help smiling. Alberto is typically extremely stoic, so Louis can only imagine how much he liked the song to send that kind of message.

 

The second text is from Harry. Of course.

 

The second text is also a photo. Of Harry. Naked.

 

Not just naked. _Naked._

 

Louis’ jaw drops a little as he tries to absorb the details.

 

Harry’s huge hand wrapped around his even bigger cock, the wet tip peeking out of his fist.

  
The splatters of come scattered across the ripples of Harry’s abs. Louis swallows hard, his mouth dry, his brain fuzzing with the implications. But the implications aren’t even an implication anymore as Louis scans the caption Harry has added to the picture that will forever be known as tool that singlehandedly made him harder faster than any other image ever:

 

_Couldn’t help thinking about fucking your sweet arse baby._

 

Later, Louis doesn’t really remember tugging his pants down so hard they actually rip. But they do. The rip is evidence enough later. He doesn’t remember fisting his cock in his hand, so hard it hurts, the pain adding a little cruel edge to the pleasure. He doesn’t remember sliding a hand down beneath his balls to thumb at the rim of his hole. But he does, and he must because there’s come all over his chest, his breath is shaky and coming in abbreviated pants and his wrist is aching from the angle.

 

He doesn’t think, doesn’t even really wipe his hands (which later is just _gross_ when he goes to clean his phone); he snaps a picture of his own and sends it to Harry subtitled _Ditto_.

 

Louis hopes a little that Harry gets it at work, while he’s bent over a pan of those delicious perfect pastries and has to take a break because he can’t think, can’t work, can’t do anything but lock himself into a bathroom stall and react just the way Louis did.

 

The one thing he does know for sure is that when they meet tomorrow on the set, it’s going to be damn hard to not bend over in front of Harry and beg him to take him apart.

 

\---

 

 

When Louis lets himself into their green room the next day, it turns out that even though he’s a whole ten minutes early, Harry is even earlier.

 

Louis looks up into Harry’s smiling face, the dimple threatening to emerge and his gorgeous eyes glowing, and he wonders if they really, truly have to film today. Can’t they just lock themselves away in this room and forget the rest of the world exists? Louis doesn’t feel capable of cooking today—not that he truly feels capable of cooking _any_ day—but it seems like a truly impossible task when all he truly wants to do is lose himself in Harry.

 

“Louis!” Harry beams at him, practically a human version of sunshine, and Louis prides himself on very staunchly resisting climbing Harry like a tree. However, that doesn’t preclude a very friendly greeting and he’s just about to fall into Harry’s arms and not even feel the tiniest bit embarrassed about that when there’s a voice behind them, coming from the still-open doorway.

 

Alberto’s voice.

 

Damn it. Louis manages—only _barely_ —not to glare at his agent when he whirls around.

 

He’s just about to launch into an interrogation when a look in Alberto’s eyes stops him up short. “What?” he demands.

 

It’s a particularly satisfied gleam. Louis wouldn’t know what that kind of satisfaction that would look like on him because he’s been satisfying himself solely with his own hands for _days_ when Harry’s are so much nicer.

 

“Your song was quite persuasive.” If it’s even possible, Alberto sounds even more satisfied than he looks.

 

“I thought we already had them?” Louis asks just as Harry pipes up with, “what song?”

 

Alberto thankfully ignores Harry and addresses Louis. “I sent it over and Epic was suddenly ready to reconsider a few key points of the contract that I didn’t feel were as favorable to you as I’d like. But that’s all changed and now we’re ready to have you sign.” He pauses and suddenly, a huge smile breaks out across his face. “You’re _very_ persuasive, kid.”

 

This would all be really great news except Harry asks _again_ , “what song?” Because apparently he is nothing if not persistent.

 

Louis wants to bury his head in his hands. Maybe it would be okay for Harry to hear the song eventually, but he is _not_ prepared to let him listen to it today. Not when in approximately twenty minutes, Alton Brown is going to be torturing them with kitchen implements and Louis is probably going to have to figure out how to turn the oven on.

 

Naturally, ignoring Louis’ extremely dirty look, Alberto whips out his phone, beaming like a proud papa. “You haven’t heard it yet?” he asks. “Just wait. It’s really his best work. You’re gonna love it.”

 

Louis snatches the phone out of Alberto’s hand with mere moments to spare before he is completely humiliated. “It’s not. . .just, it’s not ready for anyone to hear yet,” Louis explains lamely, quite sure he is turning a hundred shades of puce.

 

Harry raises a single eyebrow. “Alberto’s heard it,” he points out very reasonably. “Apparently a bunch of bigwigs at Epic have heard it.”

 

Louis doesn’t want to fuck anything up. He doesn’t want Harry to hear it, but he is also fairly certain that deliberately not sharing is going to look fairly shitty. He feels stuck between a rock and a hard place, with no idea which way to turn.

 

Alberto rescues him, which is only fair since he’s the one who got him into this mess in the first place. “Maybe after the show, yeah?” he suggests kindly. “You’ve only got a few minutes to get your game faces on.”

 

“And Louis is gonna have to cook his sweet arse off,” Harry responds with a slightly maniacal grin.

 

Louis feels he did fairly well in evading most of the actual cooking last week; he is secretly hoping, but not feeling especially good, about his chances continuing to hold.

 

“I know how to turn the oven on!” he exclaims in a high squeaky voice, which isn’t even entirely true.

 

Alberto laughs, and Louis wonders if it’s one of those moments when someone is laughing more _at_ you than _with_ you. Before he can get a chance to say so, Alberto’s gone, and it’s just he and Harry again. Harry’s staring at him with a fond, soft look. They cross the few feet between them in a second, wrapping their arms around each other.

 

“I missed you,” Louis whispers into the soft, elegant curve of Harry’s neck.

 

“Missed you too.” Harry’s voice is equally as fervent, leaving Louis less monumentally concerned about the possibility of seeming too eager yet again.

 

Louis is silent for a moment, letting himself breathe and relax, using the warmth and solid presence of Harry’s body to center him.

 

“I still don’t know how to turn the oven on,” Louis finally admits softly, almost too quietly to be heard.

 

But Harry is always paying attention. He catches the quiet confession and just hums with complete unconcern. “We’ll be fine. _You’ll_ be fine,” he reassures Louis.

 

Louis just hugs him tighter.

 

The five minute knock comes far before Louis is ready for it, but just before they’re about to let go of each other, Harry leans down and whispers, “I got tomorrow off. Mine tonight?”

 

Louis doesn’t really feel exactly confident as they walk down to the soundstage, but he’s certainly distracted by a flashing progression of dirty thoughts that don’t allow him to even get the slightest bit nervous. As it is, it takes all his energy and concentration not to get hard in front of the cameras.

 

But his respite is ultimately short-lived. By the time Alton Brown is standing in front of them again, that sly smile seemingly permanently etched on his face, Louis’ palms are sweaty and damp and his heart is thumping irregularly in his chest.

 

As he glances down the row of chefs and their celebrity partners, he sees a reflection of his own terror. It was easier last week, he reflects. Easier because they didn’t know what to expect. Louis grips his palms together behind his back and prays that he doesn’t have to turn the oven on.

 

“Welcome back,” Alton says, and while his voice is smooth and creamy, there’s that edge to it and a gleam in his eyes that Louis knows means nothing good.

 

Louis glances over at Harry and sees him swallow hard, his adam’s apple bobbing briefly but sharply. So he’s nervous too. Somehow that doesn’t help Louis feel any better.

 

“Today, we’re going to visit the Far East with our guest judge, Jet Tila. Currently the culinary ambassador to Thailand, I think we should properly welcome him by preparing your best Asian cuisine.”

 

He must be numb because Alton’s words just slide right over Louis. Asian food. And Harry is a pastry chef. A _great_ pastry chef, but still a pastry chef. Louis tries not to sweat any harder than he already is; the last thing he wants is to look moist on TV.

 

“As always, we will have a single challenge, as well as the auction items. For today’s challenge,” Alton pauses diabolically, “the celebrity will be doing the shopping.”

 

Louis freezes in place. He is sure that the camera will probably catch a look of sheer, unmitigated panic on his face, but he can’t be arsed to care about that right now. He’s going to have to go grocery shopping. _Grocery shopping_.

 

Louis doesn’t think he’s really been past the wine and the cereal aisles in Tesco for longer than he can remember. Suddenly, though, he remembers Harry forcing him to use the pantry to find ingredients for his cheese toastie and Harry insisting he understand exactly how the groceries are laid out. He might not be at an advantage, but he’s probably not at a disadvantage.

 

“Now for the auction items,” Alton continues. “We have two today. Both, I think, will prove rather counterproductive while creating your Asian-inspired cuisine.”

 

For the first, Alton whips out a large container of aluminum foil. Louis doesn’t even try to hide his disgust. Harry looks a little white around the mouth. Louis resolves to bid on this item even if Harry won’t. Whatever they have to do with the foil, Louis wants no part of it.

 

“You will be required to make all cooking vessels and utensils out of this lovely foil. Opening the bidding at 500 pounds,” Alton declares.

 

Louis bids for his first item at a thousand pounds, and the bidding is somewhat brisk between Louis and Paul Higgins and Niall Breslin. Niall drops out when the bidding reaches two thousand pounds and Paul finally calls it quits at thirty-five hundred, making Louis breathe a sigh of relief. He’d decided to hold himself to five and he’s really quite pleased he didn’t even have to go that far this first time.

 

As for deciding who gets the wretched foil, it’s really quite easy. Louis remembers distinctly what Harry said in the bakery this week about who he fears the most and that’s who he saddles with it, Liam Payne and Zayn Malik looking on in horror as Alton generously gifts them the entire jumbo-sized box.

 

Louis can’t help but smirk as Liam’s face goes blank and pale and even Zayn, who seems about as clueless in the kitchen as Louis himself, look on with barely concealed panic. It’s a good moment, maybe the first of the show when Louis feels like he and Harry have finally wrestled their fate back from anyone who might try to control them.

 

Harry must feel it too, because when Louis glances over, there’s definitely a gleam of hard-won success in his eyes and in the curl of his lips as he smiles.

 

The next auction item turns out to be a microwave. Actually, Alton explains with way too much delight, it’s _only_ a microwave.

 

As in the team saddled with the device will _only_ be able to use the microwave as a heat source.

 

Louis loves his microwave. He would probably starve without it. But he assumes from the look of distress dawning over Harry’s features, a microwave is not the most desired appliance for preparing an Asian-inspired meal.

 

Louis, spurred on by the worry creasing the delicate skin between Harry’s brows, is a bit reckless and bids on it.

 

“Five hundred pounds!” he announces, and continues until the bidding reaches a thousand pounds, and when Paul and James and Niall and Sophia won’t seem to let it go, lets them fight it out. He hopes that whoever buys it will be angry enough at the other team for driving the price up that it’ll be a jerk reaction to gift it to them.

 

It turns out that James and Paul are a little more strategic than that. Louis still breathes a sigh of relief as James condemns Niall and Melissa to using the microwave for the entirety of the challenge.

 

It’s only when the bidding is over that Louis realizes he’s going to have to go grocery shopping. He and Harry have about thirty seconds for a hurried consult on what he should grab. Harry whispers to him what feels like a _very_ long list of ingredients and Louis only hopes that he’s equal to the task.

 

The sixty seconds in the pantry passes in a flash; there’s shoving and pushing and Louis isn’t only on the receiving end. He focuses on getting the most important ingredients and when he’s sure he’s secured those, he just starts stuffing random items into his basket. Still, when he reaches Harry and sets the basket down on their prep station, out of breath from the short run to the pantry and back, Harry gives him a huge smile.

 

“You did so good,” he says loud enough for the cameras to pick up. “Dream Team!” Harry holds his hand up for a high five and Louis glances at it for a moment before tugging him into a tight hug instead. He’s fairly certain the camera caught his body pressing hard against Harry’s, and if it doesn’t end up in the footage selected to air, he’s a goat.

 

He already knows the camera loves him, and there’s no way it doesn’t love Harry too. _Look at him_ , Louis thinks with a lovesick sigh as Harry sorts through the basket of ingredients with a focused expression, the curve of his neck and jaw exposed with his hair pulled back into a puffy bun that Louis is quite desperate to dig his fingers into. He’s just _gorgeous_ and Louis is beginning to suspect that Harry is all his to enjoy.

 

“So what are we making?” Louis asks.

 

“A staple. Kung pao chicken.”

 

“I order that all the time from the restaurant down the street,” Louis admitted. “I like it spicy, though. Should we make it spicy?”

 

Harry holds up a hot pepper and the bottle of sriracha that Louis picked up during the quickest sixty seconds of his life. He doesn’t even remember putting them into the basket. “Spicy like you,” Harry giggles, his expression melting into a big puddle of fond.

 

Louis rolls his eyes. “I’m not spicy!”

 

Harry leans over the cutting board and smirks. “Oh, darling, you definitely are. And I love it.”

 

Louis mock sniffs, trying to ignore the way his blood was beginning to simmer a bit from the heat in Harry’s gaze. “Okay, Spicy, what should I be doing?”

 

“Can you make rice?” Harry asks.

 

Louis levels a frank stare at Harry and he blushes.

 

“Okay, no rice. Can you cut the chicken up into small pieces, and then chop the peanuts?”

 

Before Louis can even answer, Harry’s bustling around, setting up a different cutting board on the prep station, and hacking their chicken into rough sections with an enormous cleaver that scares Louis just by looking at it.

 

So he glances away, taking a moment to look at the rest of the groups. Liam and Zayn are in the kitchen next to them, and so Louis gets a front row view on how their battle with the foil is going.

 

Louis is somewhat dismayed to discover that for his thirty-six hundred pounds, he can watch Zayn meticulously assemble somewhat sturdy looking cooking vessels and utensils out of foil as if his hands were pure sculptural magic.

 

It’s hard, but he barely avoids a massively pout on-camera. He isn’t pleased that the very first sabotage they’ve bought doesn’t appear to be slowing Liam or Zayn down at all. If anything, all it’ll prove is that when Zayn isn’t busy creating the next blockbuster script, he’s got a future as the next Martha Stewart.

 

Louis leans over and nudges Harry, careful not to disturb his cleaver-wielding. “Hey,” he murmurs into Harry’s ear after he bends down, “I think we screwed up.” Louis pointedly glances over to where future Martha is carefully twisting and folding a large length of foil into a very credible impersonation of a spoon. Louis wants to cry.

 

To his credit, Harry isn’t even phased. “It doesn’t matter,” he says staunchly. “Whatever we make will taste better anyway.”

 

It isn’t that Louis doesn’t trust Harry. He does. But there’s a level of competency in Zayn and Liam’s movements that he never saw before and now that he has, he can’t seem to unsee it.

 

Before Louis can go into a full-fledged panic over how Zayn and Liam are real competition even though they’ve been saddled with no actual pots or pans or utensils, only a roll of foil, Harry beckons him over to the cutting board he’s set up with the chicken.

 

“Small pieces,” Harry instructs him, making sure to demonstrate clearly and carefully with the big knife—though it is far smaller than the cleaver Harry had been using.

 

Louis spends the next fifteen tedious minutes cutting the chicken, being careful and thorough, both happy and unhappy that instead of the camera capturing how horribly boring prep is, it’s focused on Harry. He’s moving through their station like a whirlwind, seeming to do about ten thousand things at once.

 

Even if Harry was the one assigned to tedious tasks, it makes sense to Louis that the camera would eat him up. He’s beautiful and charismatic and charming. He can hardly blame the camera for following him all the time—he does it himself, only forcing himself to pay attention to the task at hand because he knows how important this is.

 

When Louis finally finishes with the chicken, he looks up to see what whirlwind Harry has managed to accomplish. There’s a pan of rice on the stove, there’s an entire garden of vegetables in neat, chopped piles. Harry’s whisking the contents of several foreign looking bottles into a bowl, his bicep flexing as his hand moves briskly. Louis swallows hard.

 

“All done?” Harry asks brightly, as if Louis’ task hadn’t taken him an eternity.

 

“All done,” Louis confirms.

 

“Perfect. The wok’s all heated up, and there’s about ten minutes left, so it’s about time to start cooking.”

 

Louis doesn’t know where the time went. Ten minutes left? Is that even enough time? They’ve barely even interacted all episode, both very absorbed in their own tasks, with almost no time for flirting or the sly, witty banter that Louis is already sure will be a very prominent feature of their edit on the show. They need to stick out with personality, not just with their flavors; if they’re boring, they’ll no doubt be shown the door in the next few weeks and Louis just isn’t ready to give this up yet. So he goes with his gut, which contrary to popular belief, has steered him wrong plenty of times. He’s just hoping so much that luck can change.

 

“Show me,” he demands with a bright, crinkly-eyed smile that he knows gets him most things he wants.

 

Harry looks surprised for a moment. This definitely isn’t the plan. Louis begs with his eyes to _trust him_ , and so Harry, beautifully trusting Harry, does. Even beckons Louis over with a saucy grin and a quip about things getting spicy.

 

Louis really hopes the cameras caught that one because it’s suggestive enough, especially considering what they’ll surely get up to after filming is over, to bring a blush to his cheeks.

 

He’s asked Harry to show him; Louis doesn’t actually expect Harry to beckon him over to where the giant wok is smoking on the stove, and stick a long, thin-handled ladle into his hand.

 

“Come on, let’s cook,” Harry says breezily, as if Louis isn’t staring with something close to abject terror at the wok in front of him. Before Louis can stop him, Harry’s tossing the chicken into the pan and there’s a wall of sound and smell and steam as the raw meat hits the hot metal.

 

“Come on, stir it,” Harry directs, and Louis hesitantly sticks the tool in, flinching a bit at the sheer heat radiating from the wok.

 

“No,” Harry corrects after Louis half-heartedly moves the chicken around. He can see it beginning to stick and he’s terrified that he’s going to fuck up their dish because he was stupid enough to try to create some sort of _moment_ for them. “Like _this_.” Harry’s arms wind around Louis and Harry’s hands grip where Louis is holding the kitchen implement.

 

Harry’s breath is even hotter on his neck than the smoking pan in front of him. But after a few false starts and stuttered movements, their arms begin to move in sync, and Louis finally begins to understand how to prevent the meat from sticking or burning—you move it very quickly, turning and turning it, so it only has a split second on the sides of the pan.

 

There’s still some chicken remnants stuck to the wok when Harry scoops it out and gently retrieves the ladle from Louis’ hand. His eyes are bright with mischief as he tosses the vegetables in. “See?” Harry says as he works the vegetables with a much defter hand than Louis had even with Harry’s assistance. “Not that scary.”

 

Louis eyes the leaping flame underneath the wok and how the vegetables sizzle as they barely brush the high sides. “I don’t much like the idea of my flesh melting off,” Louis says.

 

“I’d never let that happen.” Harry sounds very certain. Louis sees out of the corner of the eye that the camera has caught this entire exchange and despite the risk, he’s almost certain his gamble was worth the potential cost.

 

Harry tosses the chicken in to mix with the sauce and vegetables and though Louis is nervously eyeing the clock, which is rapidly ticking down, it’s only a few seconds before Harry is plating their stir fry on a bed of rice and sprinkling it with the peanuts he’s already toasted.

 

“Done,” Harry exclaims with a dramatic wave of his hand.

 

Louis lets out of the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. They’re about to put a delicious (if the scented steam rising from the plate is any indication) plate in front of the judges with about seven seconds to spare. They got some good camera time in. As long as nothing disastrous happens during judging, they should be safe again this week.

 

\---

 

Geoffrey, Simon and Jet carefully and deliberately work their way down the row of plates. Their faces are annoyingly impassive, and they seem to dole out less criticism, but even less praise, than the week before. Louis doesn’t really know where they stand. And even worse they go first.

 

He knows they enjoy their dish of kung pao chicken, though Jet claims to prefer a more traditional sauce. Louis wonders—but can’t ask—if it’s his fault; after all, he’s the one who did the shopping in the pantry and it’s highly likely that he ended up forgetting some vital ingredient that Harry had to cover for missing. But Jet loves the crunch of the peanuts and Geoffrey and Simon both remark on the flawlessly cooked vegetables. Simon points out that the chicken itself is a bit ragged in spots, and Louis narrowly avoids blushing.

 

Niall and Melissa are up next.

 

“Sushi,” Jet says thoughtfully as he neatly captures a piece of sashimi with his chopsticks. “A bit of an easy way out, yes?”

 

Simon sniffs. “Most definitely.”

 

Turns out the microwave only cooking method makes unpalatable rice and all the judges are unhappy that Niall and Melissa didn’t really attempt to cook _anything_ of substance. Niall seems unconcerned though, smiling sunnily through the entire critique as if he couldn’t be arsed to care.

 

Louis wishes he could steal a bit of Niall’s _laissez-faire_ flair. He cares a little too much—not just about the show—and he’s afraid it’s beginning to show. But the good news is that Niall and Melissa, no matter how unconcerned they appear on the surface, aren’t a judge favorite again. Louis takes heart that he and Harry almost certainly won’t finish last.

 

Ben and Perrie prepared a fairly simple bento box with rice, teriyaki chicken and some delicious looking tempura-fried vegetables. They’re light and flaky and Jet demolishes his portion, poking around for another portion of zucchini as Simon gives his bite of teriyaki chicken an unimpressed glance.

 

“Still very simple,” he points out. “And this chicken is overcooked.”

 

Louis is beginning to discover that lack of execution is just as harmful as a lack of flavor. He thanks his lucky stars that he and Harry haven’t managed to stumble into either of those issues yet.

 

The trio of judges move onto Niall Breslin and Sophia Smith and their plate of noodles and shrimp.

 

“This is really good pad Thai,” Jet enthuses, as he deftly wraps noodles around his chopsticks.

 

Simon agrees, and Louis is confused. Niall Breslin is from the backwaters of Ireland. How did he learn how to cook pad Thai well enough to please even the culinary ambassador to Thailand?

 

It turns out, the answer is surprising. “Sophia,” Niall insists as he defers to the beautiful brunette. “She lived in Thailand for several years. This was mostly her.”

 

“Delicious,” Simon observes. “Kudos to you for working to your team’s strengths.”

 

Liam and Zayn also apparently worked to their team’s strengths, presenting a dish of deep yellow coconut curry. “My mother’s recipe,” Zayn points out as the judges each dig in a spoon to the vivid sauce.

 

Geoffrey turns to Zayn in astonishment as he licks the spoon clean. “Your mother is a genius,” he says, and it’s far and away the best praise that any team has gotten today. Up until Sophia’s pad Thai and Zayn’s mother’s curry, Louis thought he and Harry might finally have a chance to take first prize.

 

Louis is peeved that all that foil seemed to make no difference. He’s annoyed with himself for judging the situation so badly and for wasting their money. Maybe he should have Harry make all the auction decisions going forward, he’s just no good at it. It’s hard to stand in front of the cameras and pretend not to care

 

Eleanor and Barbara are next up and while Harry has had nothing but praise for the latter as a pastry chef, it’s beginning to be clear that’s truly where her talent lies.

 

The judges are unimpressed and downright disgusted at points by their Korean barbecue. They don’t like the flavor—“this is unlike any Korean barbecue I’ve ever had,” Simon points out rather bluntly—and they don’t like the execution either. “Tough and dry,” Geoffrey remarks. “You cooked it til it was dead twice over.”

 

They don’t have a single positive comment to say and Barbara looks bereft as the judges move onto Paul and James, who have prepared an entire suite of dumplings.

 

There’s several different flavor pairings, which Louis thinks seems like a lot of work, and it shows because while nothing is terrible, nothing is particularly good either. “Perhaps less is more?” Geoffrey offers as a parting shot.

 

It’s almost certainly a much less stressful judging session than last week, and Louis feels confident that he and Harry are sure bets to move onto the next round. So much so that his heart barely races as Alton announces that the team in last place is unsurprisingly Barbara and Eleanor.

 

Even more unsurprisingly, first goes to Zayn and Liam. Second to Niall Breslin and Sophia. And again, Harry and Louis are announced for third. It’s definitely an achievement worth celebrating over, but Louis is still a bit annoyed as they pack up to leave the studio.

 

“Always the bridesmaid, never the bride,” he grumbles as he zips up his jacket.

 

“It’s fine,” Harry soothes. “Really. It’s better to be a bit underestimated by the others at this stage anyway. We’re competition, but just barely. We’re not doing enough to lose, but not really enough to win either.”

 

Louis scrunches his nose. “Don’t tell me that’s on purpose.”

 

“Not exactly on purpose? But I don’t mind flying under the radar. Nobody’s given us a sabotage yet, have they?” Harry’s eyes twinkle a bit diabolically.

 

“Bananas!” Louis shrieks. “You’ve been holding out on me!”

 

Harry just chuckles and wraps his arms around Louis, holding him tight. Burying his nose into the warm curve of Harry’s neck, Louis feels the tension of the day finally leave him completely.

  
“Sorry about earlier,” he whispers so quietly that because he’s afraid both that Harry will and won’t hear him.

 

But Harry must have supernatural hearing, because he pulls back a little and looks seriously straight into Louis’ eyes. Louis thinks he must be seeing straight to his slightly tarnished soul and reading all the secrets he tries so hard to hide.

 

“You were right to do it,” Harry says softly.

 

“I messed up so much today,” Louis can’t help but admit. “First buying that sabotage that did _nothing_ to hurt Zayn and Liam, and then springing that on you about the cooking. I could have really messed up our chances.”

 

“You’re wrong. You saved us. I got so caught up in cooking and doing everything perfectly I forgot about everything else. _You_ reminded me. _You_ lightened the atmosphere and gave the camera something great to capture. As for Zayn and Liam, well, I think they just got lucky.”

 

Harry must see a shadow of doubt in his eyes, because he just gives a sad, bewildered shake of his head—almost as if he can’t believe Louis doesn’t see how wonderful he was—and kisses him.

 

It’s heated almost immediately and Louis would hate the fact that Harry distracted him from feeling sorry for himself, except that Harry’s tongue is in his mouth and his enormous hands are on his arse and he can’t even remember why he was upset.

 

“Let’s go home,” Harry says when he finally lifts his mouth off Louis’.

 

Louis knew it was coming; he’d seen it barreling down the road from about ten miles away, from practically the first moment they met and Harry, big and strong and handsome, blushed like a schoolboy with a crush.

 

He’s still taken completely by surprise when his heart literally tumbles out of his chest and falls right at Harry Styles’ feet.

 

His voice trembles a little and he knows his hand is shaking as he reaches out to take Harry’s. He’s in love. It isn’t like he never thought he’d fall in love again. It’s more like Louis believed he’d be logical and smart about it and allow it happen, rather than him blundering into it without rhyme or reason again. But love isn’t something that he can control, that much is becoming abundantly clear. Louis is just going to have to trust that this time is different. That _Harry_ is different.

 

“Okay,” he says, like Harry just talking about going home together is nothing. Like it hasn’t just sent Louis careening right off the cliff of good sense. Like it hasn’t made him fall in love. “Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr post, reblog if you so desire!](http://bethaboolou.tumblr.com/post/127675146185/taste-on-my-tongue-by-bethaboo-110-10880)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you [Liz](http://cuethetommo.tumblr.com/) for editing this at lightspeed and for being so encouraging and a great friend these last few weeks. you are a wonderful reminder that not everyone in this fandom is a piece of shit.

By the time they reach Harry’s flat in separate cars, Louis’ heart has finally stopped pounding from his recent revelation, and is now pounding with what must be nerves.

 

It’s not that they haven’t had sex before—they have, even though it was only the once—it’s more that Louis has never had sex with Harry while he’s been _in love_ with him.

 

Really, this is a huge problem because Louis knows what he’s like when he’s in love. He’s sappy and extremely cheesy and likes staring deep into his lover’s eyes and talking to him about ten thousand times a day, even if it’s just silly emojis sent back and forth, or pictures that tell a story of how his day is going. Sure Harry liked Louis a lot when Louis was _himself_. But now he’s _in love_ Louis and he’s afraid that he’s going to push Harry away.

 

Realistically, Louis knows it’s stupid; knows he’s being silly and that Harry is almost certainly as fond of Louis as he is of Harry. But logic doesn’t help make his heart beat any slower as he climbs the stairs to Harry’s flat.

 

Louis taps hesitantly on the door, and Harry calls out, “it’s open!”

 

Louis walks in and nearly walks right back out. Except that he’s really stuck in place, glued to the floor by the scene in front of him.

 

The entryway into the living room is dark, the only light a few scattered candles. There’s a faint smell of vanilla and lemon in the air and it takes Louis a moment to realize what it reminds him of—it’s the scent of Harry’s curls when he buries his face in them. The earthly perfume of Harry’s bed when he woke up that one lovely morning next to him.

 

Louis scrubs a hand over his face. He is so, so fucked.

 

How is he supposed to rein in all those embarrassingly sappy bits of himself when it feels like Harry is trying to lure them out one candle at a time?

 

Louis gingerly takes another step inside, hoping against hope that he doesn’t spot any rose petals haphazardly sprinkled over the hardwood. Candles he can _maybe_ handle; rose petals would turn him into a sappy mess and he won’t be able to keep Harry from seeing all of it.

 

“I’m in the bedroom,” Harry calls out and Louis rolls his eyes a bit. _Of course_ he is. Louis resumes his litany of prayers that there are no rose petals.

 

Except that there are. Louis pauses at the doorway to the bedroom, the visual laid out in front of him stopping him in his tracks for the second time in the last two minutes.

 

At least they aren’t on the bed. They’re clustered around the bed, vases overflowing with not just roses, but other flowers. The scent they’re throwing off isn’t as sickly sweet as Louis might have imagined, not with the sheer amount clustered in the room. Instead, it’s delicate and floral and lovely.

 

“It’s too much, isn’t it?” Harry asks, and there’s chagrin in his voice and if Louis listens hard enough, he can hear the narrowest, sharpest edge of embarrassment there too. And while Louis might feel scared enough of his own tendency towards romance, there is no universe in which he will ever let _Harry_ feel bad about his.

 

In a way, it’s a blessing, because sudden fear that Harry might regret this beautiful statement and wish he’d never done it powers Louis right over the threshold and he wraps his arms around the taller boy and holds him as tightly as he can.

 

“It’s lovely,” he murmurs, craning his neck up so he can whisper it directly into Harry’s ear. “I love it.”

 

_I love you_.

 

He doesn’t say it though. Louis can feel the weight of the words on his tongue, perhaps not begging to be freed now, but they’re present and they won’t ever let him forget it. At some point, he fully expects that he won’t be able to contain them any longer, and they’ll come tumbling out, end over end, probably a bit lumpy and awkward, but real and true all the same.

 

Hopefully whenever that particular moment comes, Harry will be in love with Louis too, and he won’t care that Louis’ words aren’t perfect and lovely. He’ll only care that they exist at all.

 

The way Harry holds him back, just as close, just as tight, his arms still careful to be gentle, cradling Louis’ back as if he is precious —that alone is enough relax Louis enough into the embrace. Enough so that he can tilt his head back and kiss Harry with everything he doesn’t quite have the courage to say yet.

 

“I’m sorry we didn’t win today,” Harry says quietly.

 

Louis is sorry too, but he’s sure as hell not going to let Harry see that. It’s not Harry’s fault. Their lack of first places is down to the whims of the judges, not anything that Harry did or didn’t do.

 

“Don’t be,” Louis murmurs, brushing his hair back and lifting onto his tiptoes so he can leave a trail of tiny kisses along Harry’s exposed collarbone. “You’re wonderful.”

 

Louis is just beginning to deepen one to the vibrant scarlet of a love bite when Harry pulls away unexpectedly. “Tonight is supposed to be about you,” Harry says with a tiny wrinkle forming between his brows.

 

“What if I want to leave you this love bite?”

 

Harry wavers for a moment, and Louis pounces, hoping to push him over the edge. “Personally, I think it should always be about _both_ of us, don’t you think, love?”

 

The _love_ accidentally appeared at the end of the sentence and Louis is suddenly so eager to move past it he barely waits for Harry’s acquiescing nod before pouncing, reaching up to kiss him.

 

Harry only takes a moment to catch back, and he’s kissing back with so much passion that Louis feels his heart lighten. Surely someone who can kiss him this way _must_ have similar feelings?

 

Before Louis can go on a long-winded analysis in his mind about Harry’s feelings, the bed hits the back of his knees gently, and he realizes that Harry’s been moving them backwards towards the big fluffy white bed in the center of the room.

 

Really, this is an idea he can get behind.

 

He lets the worry go and just revels in the feel of Harry’s lips on his, his tongue snaking in to touch his, the way his hands reverently coast over Louis’ curves, sliding his t-shirt over his head.

 

Louis scoots up on the bed and Harry looms over him, his eyes a deep, serious green. “You’re so lovely, you know,” Harry says softly, as he buries his face in Louis’ neck.

 

Gasping a bit at the love bite Harry is leaving _him_ , lips relentless against the sensitive curve of his neck, Louis gasps as Harry adds teeth, nibbling with just enough pressure to make his stomach swoop.

 

By the time Harry reaches the curve of his jaw, he’s more than gasping, he’s panting a little, cock thickening up in his jeans. “Feels good, love?”

 

Louis is dazed enough he doesn’t even register right away what _Harry_ has added onto his own phrase this time, but once he does, it’s enough to ratchet up his desire even further. There’s absolutely nothing hotter than this—touching and being touched by the person you love. Louis has never liked one night stands; doesn’t like the impersonality of the touches. He enjoys his serial monogamy all the way up until the relationships sour, but even then, nothing has ever felt like this before. It’s like Harry’s inside his head, touching him from the inside out, knowing what he likes as if he’s experiencing the sensations as Louis does. It’s heady and hot and perfect and Louis has to force himself to shove away the sudden pang of fear that this too might end someday.

 

It’s really not easy, but Louis does it by turning his focus back on the beautiful boy hovering over him. Louis reaches down and pulls up Harry’s t-shirt by the hem, lifting it over his head, and slides his palms everywhere he can, reveling in the way the muscles bunch underneath the smooth skin. His fingers drift lower, toying a bit with the waistband of his pants, tucking into the sensitive skin alongside his teeny love handles.

 

While Louis has been teasing, Harry’s moved lower, mouthing insistently at the scrolled letters of Louis’ collarbone tattoo. He’s gentle yet demanding. Louis can feel the insistent desire under every touch, but that Harry doesn’t give in makes the tenderness Louis receives literally awe-inspiring.

 

Harry moves lower, tongue reaching out to caress one nipple, and the heat of Harry’s mouth its own kind of insistence. Louis thinks he might be murmuring a litany of half-formed words into his skin and it’s not until he quiets and listens hard that he can finally make out what Harry’s mumbling between kisses and nips and love bites. _“God, lovely, so beautiful, stunning.”_

 

Everywhere Harry’s mouth touches, it feels like his words being absorbed into Louis’ body. Louis feels light and free and loved. He knows he’s felt this way about someone before—almost certainly feels this much or _more_ —but he’s never had someone feel this way about him.

 

Harry reaches the tiny pouch of a tummy that Louis has always hated. He still hates it, but maybe not quite as fervently as Harry nibbles at the skin there, caressing it like it’s the sexiest six pack in the entire universe.

 

Louis is nearly incoherent with love and a hot, insistent lust by the time Harry’s breath stutters over his straining erection.

 

“God, Harry, _please,_ ” he begs and Harry doesn’t even tease. He just strips his jeans and pants off and his mouth skates up one thigh, nibbling a bit on the flex of muscle as Louis strains to get his hard cock somewhere near Harry’s miracle of a mouth.

 

“Gorgeous,” Harry pants just before he slides his lips down Louis’ length. Louis barely registers it, he’s lost in a wave of sensation as Harry swirls his tongue insistently around the head.

 

Harry’s hand clamps around Louis’ thigh and he gives him so much hot, wet suction that Louis feels like he must be sucking his brain out his dick. Far too soon, he trembles at the heat building in his belly. “Harry,” he begs, “gonna come.”

 

He pulls off instantly. _Too_ instantly for Louis’ liking; he pouts a little as Harry sheds the rest of his clothes, his own cock so hard, the wet head bouncing against those glorious abs as he reaches over to grab lube and a condom from the drawer.

 

“Want you to come on my cock,” Harry murmurs as he slicks up his fingers and helps prop Louis’ hips up. “Gonna make you feel so good, baby.”

 

“Already feels good.” Louis knows he sounds a bit delirious, but with that mouth all over his body, how was he supposed to sound any different? And it’s probably a good thing he got that out first, because Harry’s beautiful fingers—fingers he’s been worshipping in his dreams since they day they met—are circling his hole and he’s speechless with how much he just _wants_.

 

Harry slides a finger in, big and thick, though nowhere near as thick as the cock he’s trying to prep Louis to take. “More,” Louis manages to insist when Harry moves too slow, too careful for his liking. He likes it fast and hard, though the romance of this encounter is probably not the right place for dirty fucking.

 

“Gonna give you everything you need,” Harry reassures him, and slides a second finger in, the stretch around his rim a bit painfully insistent but still so good already. “Anything you ever want.”

 

“Good,” Louis can only pant weakly as Harry slides in and out, still tender, but determined enough to find his prostate on the fourth try.

 

Harry’s fingers teasingly circle the little nub, and Louis buries his face in his bicep, mouthing at the skin, trying to distract himself enough that he doesn’t scream or _come_.

 

A third finger teases around his rim, and Louis can’t contain his moan of acceptance and pleasure. “Make you feel so good,” Harry says, his voice rough and gravelly. He sounds like he’s enjoying giving Louis this about as much as he’s enjoying taking it. And that’s probably the hottest part of this. _How much they enjoy each other._

 

Harry stretches Louis out careful and slow, but with such determined brushes against his prostate that Louis is desperate within a few minutes. “Give it to me,” he slurs, not even caring how demanding he sounds. If Harry doesn’t hurry up, Louis is going to come and ruin all those lovely daydreams about coming on that beautiful cock of his.

 

He gives Louis one more teasing circle against his prostate and then removes his fingers, making quick work of the condom.

 

Harry leans in to kiss Louis’ slack mouth as he snubs his cock against Louis’ rim. “Oh fuck, you’re gonna feel so good,” he pants into Louis’ mouth. “Hot and tight and _gorgeous_.”

 

“So pretty,” Louis agrees mindlessly as he reaches up to stroke Harry’s curls away from his forehead.

 

The head of Harry’s cock slowly entering him punches the rest of the breath out of Louis’ lungs. Harry is so big and hard and it feels inescapable in the best way as Harry slowly fucks him into the fluffy white duvet.

 

When he’s fully inside Louis, out they both let out a moan, their voices harmonizing together in the still of the room. Louis has never felt so full in his god damn life, and he’s never loved anything more. Harry’s cock is already brushing his prostate, a white hot burning shooting through his veins as the pleasure already threatens to overwhelm him.

 

“Love me,” Louis whispers into Harry’s lips.

 

Harry gives a short, tortured nod and fucks him at a pace that might have tortured a previous version of Louis, but tonight, Louis just eats up his long, slow strokes. The pleasure is so hot and thick he can only mouth over the exposed curve of Harry’s throat in wet slurps. Harry doesn’t seem to mind because he’s moaning just about as loud as Louis is now, deep and hard every time he bottoms out.

 

“Close,” Louis groans as Harry’s hips begin to stutter, not quite as controlled as before. Louis thinks he’s about to come probably, from the pained expression on his face, to the way his fingers grip Louis’ hips even tighter than before, and Louis wants nothing more than to come with him.

 

Harry seems pretty gone but he’s apparently not far gone enough to slide his hand across Louis’ hipbone and grasp his hard cock, stroking it insistently.

 

It’s all Louis needs to fall off the razor sharp edge that Harry’s been building inside Louis since he walked in the door. He comes with a shout and his teeth grazing Harry’s throat, vision growing blurry as come splatters up Harry’s chest and he feels his hole clench once, then twice around Harry’s dick.

 

Harry follows with a deep groan of his own, his hips slamming home and grinding his cock there for a long, drawn out moment as he comes into the condom.

 

Louis can’t even complain when Harry finally collapses on top of him, come and sweat and lube smearing between them.

 

“Wonderful Harold,” Louis murmurs into his damp skin.

 

“Wonderful Louis,” Harry mumbles back a few long moments later. “Definitely wonderful Louis.

 

\--

 

They sleep hard for two-ish hours, Louis finally waking up with his mouth full of Harry’s curls and his skin tacky and gross with various dried patches.

 

The room is dark, the candles long since sputtered out on their own melted wax.

 

“Harry,” Louis mumbles, pulling away but groaning when his skin literally _sticks_ to Harry’s. Immediately falling asleep in each other’s arms had seemed like such a great idea at the time, but now, it’s becoming quite clear it wasn’t.

 

“Ow,” Harry moans back. He must have also discovered where they’re pretty glued together.

 

“Shower,” Louis says as insistently as he can considering he’s half-asleep and his front is literally _stuck_ to Harry’s back.

 

Harry nods, and Louis slowly, agonizingly peels them apart. When he’s finally free, he collapses back onto the bed, panting a little at how much his skin stings.

 

Louis hears Harry rustling on his side of the bed and begins to work up the energy to move again. But before he can, he feels Harry’s arms slide under him and suddenly he’s airborne, Harry lifting him bridal style.

 

“Bananas!” Louis shrieks as Harry moves towards the bathroom. “Don’t drop me!”

 

Louis can feel Harry’s chest shaking with laughter as he finally deposits him, bare ass naked on the bathroom counter. Harry leans over and flips the shower on, steam quickly filling the bathroom.

 

“Like I’d ever drop you,” Harry mumbles as he slips into the shower. Louis slides off the counter and follows him in.

 

Harry’s hair is wet and he pushes it back, eyes shining bright and green. “You’re precious cargo, you know,” he says rather impudently. Louis really can’t let this stand. He takes a step closer, spray misting over his face.

 

“Precious?” Louis asks, and he hates how high and anxious he sounds. Like he’s desperate for Harry to confess his love. Which he is. Completely. Who is he kidding?

 

Harry falling in love with Louis and telling Louis first would make everything about a million times simpler. But of course, all Harry does is shake his hair like a shaggy dog, finishing what the light mist had started and getting Louis all wet.

 

“Scrub a dub dub,” Harry sings, his smile giddy and light as he pours shampoo in his hands and scrubs first his head and then Louis’. He’s got a nice deft touch with the perfect amount of pressure, big hands massaging Louis’ head as well as they’ve massaged all his other body parts.

 

“You’ve got a nice voice,” Louis points out after he’s rinsed his head. He’s soaping up his skin now, trying to not notice how gorgeous Harry’s pale skin is when it’s wet like this, shining under the light.

 

“It’s okay.” Harry brushes it aside the way he brushes aside most compliments, though typically they’re compliments about his cooking—or his truly ridiculous good looks. Louis spent an entirely non-creepy evening last week watching all the YouTube videos he could find that featured Harry and couldn’t help but notice that he likes to not take credit.

 

Louis wants Harry to have all the credit in the world, especially when they win _Kitchen Wars_ and Harry can finally open the bakery of his dreams.

 

They finish rinsing off and dry off—they only get distracted by all the bare, naked skin once, when Louis pushes Harry up against the tiny counter and kisses him soft and sweet, a nice contrast to the way his thumbs are digging hard into Harry’s soft hips.

 

Louis finally lifts his mouth from Harry’s when he hears his stomach grumble insistently. “Hungry?” Harry asks with an impudent grin.

 

“Oh shut it.” Louis makes a face. “You’re the bloody brilliant cook. Dinner, _please_?”

 

It turns out that even though Harry _is_ a bloody brilliant cook, he has no intention of stretching his culinary muscles tonight.

 

“Pancakes?” Louis asks with disbelief as he watches Harry dump in flour and sugar and salt in a bowl. He cracks several eggs terrifyingly quick against the side of a large glass pitcher and whisks the yolks separate from the whites.

 

He makes it so easy—dividing the eggs that way, and Louis can only stare at him agape from his perch on the counter.

 

“Oi!” Louis exclaims. “I thought you weren’t gonna go super chef on me, Bananas.”

 

Harry raises an eyebrow as he gently folds in his egg whites. “Don’t tell me you use a mix.”

 

“I _only_ use a mix,” Louis admits. “And my pancakes always taste plenty fine.”

 

Even though Harry is already turned towards his cast iron pan, heating on the stove, Louis can still see his grimace. Sometimes Louis can’t really understand how in-tune they are. After all, they’ve only known each other a few weeks. Shouldn’t be it be much harder to move together like this? Instead it’s been as easy and straightforward as those eggs Harry just separated.

 

“Lou, time to practice,” Harry insists, beckoning him over.

 

“I’ll just fuck it up,” Louis says apprehensively.

 

“You won’t,” Harry promises. “And even if you do, you won’t. It’s just flour and eggs and a little bit of vanilla. I’ve got lots more.”

 

Louis slides down from the counter, retrospectively glad that he’d put on a pair of Harry’s pants, and approaches the stove with trepidation.

 

“See those little bubbles?” Harry asks, waving the spatula in Louis’ face until he forcibly grabs it. He absently nods, focusing far more on slapping Harry’s arse with the plastic utensil instead of actually using it to flip pancakes.

 

“Louis!” Harry sounds more amused than mad, but there’s daggers in his eyes. “Pay attention. This pancake is going to burn if you don’t flip it now. See how the bubbles in the middle have all burst? That means it’s done.”

 

“Sorry, love, your arse is just quite tempting,” Louis says with a smirk. Harry flushes, and it’s worth the first pancake being a tiny bit burnt after Louis finally flips it.

 

They slowly make their way through the batter Harry’s whipped up, and as it disappears from the bowl, a pile of beautiful golden brown pancakes appears on a plate on the other side of the stove.

 

“See?” Harry impudently tells Louis as he pours maple syrup over his stack of pancakes. “That wasn’t so difficult.”

 

“It’s a good thing you were supervising.” Louis gestures with his fork. “Otherwise, we might have starved.”

 

“You mean, it’s a good thing I supervised, otherwise you’d have ended up on your knees and pancakes wouldn’t be what you’d be eating?”

 

Louis is shocked into silence for a good, long moment. _How_ does Harry know him so well?

 

“How do you know me so well?” he’s finally able to splutter out.

 

Harry just shrugs and shovels more pancakes into his mouth. Louis can’t really blame him; they’re delicious. Way better than the boxed mix than he always used to buy for his sisters, but you won’t find him admitting that to Harry. “You’re more famous in the UK than you give yourself credit for, Lou.”

 

Louis _must_ be, because like Harry had already predicted, by the time they’re washing the dishes, Louis finds himself undeniably fascinated by the loose joggers hanging off Harry’s hips, threatening to fall to the ground. Louis knows just how little Harry is wearing under those joggers—exactly _nothing_ —and he doesn’t need much encouragement to drop to his knees and begin mouthing at the fabric covering Harry’s already hardening cock.

 

A blowjob and an embarrassingly quick handjob later, they’re tucked back in bed, Louis collapsed across Harry’s chest, Harry’s hand gently untangling the strands of Louis’ hair. They’re drifting in that space between wakefulness and sleep, and Louis can’t even remember the last time he felt as relaxed as he does right now.

 

It’s the perfect moment for confessions, and Louis has one he nearly desperately wants to make. But the words are thankfully stuck to the roof of his mouth, and he finally drifts off, the litany of them repeating in his head.

 

His last conscious thought is, _thank god I don’t talk in my sleep_.

 

\--

 

Harry doesn’t have to work in the morning, but Louis is supposed to be at the studio by noon. He takes a shower, borrows Harry’s clothes that conspicuously do not fit him, and is at the studio by 12:15. Alberto just shakes his head, completely unsurprised, but Louis does see a hint of a smile on his face—and if Alberto knew where he spent the last night, he makes no mention of it as they walk into the recording studio.

 

The next few days pass in a bit of a blur.

 

This time it’s not aimless fooling around with shit new lyrics or re-tooling old songs.

 

Louis is signed and contracted and working on his new album with his brand new producer, Julian.

 

Julian was brought in by the label based on the ongoing discussions about Louis’ new serious singer-songwriter vibe. It’s to everyone’s surprise, then, that Louis announces he wants something completely different.

 

“I want to write an album about falling in love,” announces mid-way through the afternoon on the first day.

 

“I thought we were going in a new direction,” Julian suggests, not unkindly. And well, Louis did say he wanted to do that, but it’s hard to write something angsty and profound when he feels lit up from within, like the world’s largest neon sign that reads “I’ve got a huge fat crush on Harry Styles.”

 

Or, you know, something a little shorter that could actually fit on his body.

 

Julian furrows his brow and Louis shifts uncomfortably from side to side.

 

“Okay, explain to me how this fits into your vision.”

 

“New vision,” Louis says. “I wanna do some retro Madonna-esque pop. Like real ‘80s shit. A story about falling in love.”

 

“I thought we were gonna go the singer-songwriter route,” Julian points out.

 

It hadn’t been a bad idea, really, but the idea had never sat comfortably on Louis. He’d wanted to be taken _seriously_ , but he wasn’t sure he could pull off that sort of Ed Sheeran-gravitas.

 

“Fuck being serious,” Louis says, and finds he actually means it—way more than he ever meant that he wanted to go the singer-songwriter route. Sitting on a stage by himself with a guitar and a plaid shirt just isn’t for him. “I wanna make fun music that I can dance to in my kitchen.”

 

“I didn’t know you used your kitchen.”

 

“Alberto told you,” Louis groans.

 

“Alberto told me,” Julian confirms with a sly smile. “And that you’ve got a massive crush on your partner. Embarrassing, he said it was. And he was right.”

 

“It’s not embarrassing,” Louis argues. “It’s inspirational.”

 

And it turns out to be absolutely inspirational.

 

Louis snapchats Harry a few selected bits from the first few songs they work on, and he is unsurprisingly excited and enthusiastic back.

 

On the fourth day, Louis is pacing around the studio, ranting about how Harry is his new favorite color, and they need to work that into a song. Julian is nodding along, writing notes, actually acting like Louis is onto something big, instead of just being a huge tit in love.

 

Louis loves Julian.

 

Actually, Louis loves _Harry_. With that thought, his phone buzzes.

 

It’s Harry. Of course it’s Harry.

 

**Niall is throwing a cast party next week after filming. You in, superstar?**

 

Louis has been doing so much thinking and writing and singing about Harry that he really hasn’t had an opportunity to miss him. But the text brings it all crashing back. How springy Harry’s hair is, how he purrs when Louis rubs his hands through it, the wistfulness in his clear green eyes as they’d said goodbye on his front stoop only a few days ago.

 

It’s a no brainer for Louis to reply: **of course. When and where?**

 

He sends the text and then instantly thinks of something else. **Be my date?**

 

Harry texts back the location of the restaurant Niall works at and the time. And a second message too: **Thought I already was. Sure thing, I am.**

 

Harry might say he’s a sure thing, but there’s no surer thing than Louis at this point. He’s flush with love and actually insane enough to be writing _songs_ about it.

 

“Mate,” Julian points out, “you might want to tone down the starry eyes a bit when you see him next.”

 

Louis just isn’t sure if he can. He’s been constructing daydreams in the sky for the last three days. It’s gonna be a bit tough to return to the hard, solid ground.

 

He practices his most neutral expression and Julian just laughs.

 

“When are you going to play him these, anyway?”

 

Louis’ throat gets tight. “When the time is right.”

 

“They’re a bit . . . well . . . _obvious_ ,” Julian points out. Again, not unkindly. Julian is a great sounding board because he will absolutely tell you if something is shit. Quite helpful that way.

 

“I want to work on the color song,” Louis says, changing the subject. “I think I was onto something.”

 

Julian rolls his eyes a little, but picks his pad right back up. Louis takes that as a good sign.

 

By the time they leave the studio at ten that night, the song is mostly done and even Julian looks surprised at how good it turned out. “Honest, mate,” he confesses as they drag their coats on. “I thought the whole idea was a bit shit. Waited to see if you could make anything coherent out of that ranting, and you did. More than coherent, actually.”

 

Louis flushes with pride. “You really think so?”

 

Julian pats him on the shoulder reassuringly. “Louis, I’m not kidding. It’s a gorgeous song. Any bloke would be thrilled to have a song like that written about him.” He pauses. “You know, if you feel this strongly about him, maybe you should think about telling him. He probably feels the same, at least if what you’ve told me is true.”

 

The last thing Louis needs is anyone helping unstick the words. He’s quite okay with the words being stuck. “I’ll think about it.”

 

He means to forget what Julian said as soon as he closes the studio door, but instead that’s _all_ he can think about. They’re filming tomorrow, and Louis is coming down with an acute case of word vomit.

 

This isn’t good at all.

 

\--

 

“I missed you,” Harry says when Louis walks into their green room the next morning. He wraps his arms firmly around Louis’ middle and kisses him unabashedly.

 

Louis gave himself a very stern lecture in the mirror this morning. No untoward confessions today, especially before filming and especially when they get to Niall’s party later.

 

There wasn’t anything in the lecture about this. “I missed you too,” Louis breathes out unsteadily as they finally break apart. “I’m sorry this week turned out so crazy.”

 

“I lost you to a vortex of music,” Harry says with a nonchalant shrug. He’s even still smiling. “As long as I get you back, that’s all I care about.”

 

Louis is still breathless. He’s rather taken with the idea of Harry wanting him back.

 

“I’m right here,” he insists softly.

  
“Good.” Harry pulls him in for an even tighter hug. Maybe that’s why Louis can’t quite catch his breath; he’s had his lungs squished by a giant Harry. “Ready to kick some ass today?”

 

“I’m ready to do better than place third,” Louis confesses as Harry releases him and he turns to check his hair in the mirror.

 

“Oh baby,” Harry says as he nuzzles into the soft hairs at the base of Louis’ neck. Louis shivers. “We’re gonna do a hell of a lot better than third.”

 

Louis believes him. There’s a cocky restlessness in Harry’s movements today, a certainty that Louis hasn’t ever seen before. Or maybe it’s just a week without any sex besides the manual variety.  Louis is certainly feeling a bit edgy himself.

 

He believes him even more when they’re standing in front of Alton Brown and he announces the theme of the week.

  
“This week, our lovely guest judge is Pioneer Woman, Ree Drummond. She’s famous for baking and cooking for a huge crowd, especially early in the mornings when her husband and family have to work on their ranch. In honor of her, I want you to make the judges. . . _breakfast_.”

 

Louis’ heart jumps in his chest. _Breakfast_. They can totally rock breakfast.

 

“But first,” Alton continues, the evil edge to his voice returning, “the overall challenge of this episode. The chef will be prepping, the celebrity cooking.”

 

Louis would have panicked for sure if Harry hadn’t just taught him how to cook pancakes. This is going to be _easy_.

 

He turns his head to meet Harry’s gaze and discovers that Harry is definitely smirking back at him. It isn’t much of a stretch at all to imagine that Harry is also remembering that wonderful evening they spent together, cooking up orgasms and pancakes.

 

Unfortunately, all that they’ll be making on _Kitchen Wars_ is the latter.

 

“First, your sixty second shop. Then we’ll move onto the auction portion of the challenge,” Alton says.

 

Harry picks up their basket and he’s off and running with the rest of the chefs, battling it out in the pantry. Louis watches, not even slightly anxious, as Harry throws boxes and bottles and containers into their basket with the air of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing.

 

Usually Louis might worry about being over-confident; however, today he just feels like there’s no way they can’t rock this out of the park.

 

Sixty seconds later, Harry returns to their station with a full basket of ingredients and a rather triumphant smile. “Nailed it,” he murmurs into Louis’ ear. “Don’t bother bidding. We can do this.”

 

Exactly what Louis was thinking. He kind of loves how in sync their thinking has become. It’s hard not to imagine that it’s evidence of their growing feelings.

 

The first auction item is wheeled out. “A campfire stove,” Alton announces. “Perfect for cooking when Ree and her kids go camping.”

 

Louis hates camping. He eyes the jumping flames and the small cooking surface of the stove and prays they aren’t given this item. Nobody looks particularly concerned though. Niall even looks excited at the possibility. Louis hopes that nobody wastes their money and gives the stove to him.

 

The bidding is brisk, with James and Ben battling it out for the right to hand it over to someone.

 

James wins with a relatively small bid of only twenty-five hundred pounds, and like Louis expected, he gives the stove to Ben and Perrie. The danger, Louis reflects, of driving up the price on an auction item, is the winner is far more likely to have short term memory and just give it to you.

 

Louis remembers stupidly biding for that tin foil challenge and how easy Zayn and Liam made it look. It’s certainly made him a more cautious bidder.

 

Up until when Alton has his assistants wheel out a rather diabolical looking prep station, fashioned as a giant lazy susan, rotating at a steady clip already.

 

“One word about this fun experience,” Alton explains. “It never stops. Sometimes it might go slower. Sometimes it might faster. But it won’t _ever_ completely stop.”

 

Louis knows he blanches and the camera probably catches the fear in his eyes. Even if he doesn’t have to personally deal with this, he does _not_ want Harry to.

 

“One thousand,” Niall shouts the instant Alton opens bidding.

 

“One five,” Sophia chimes in, with her rather silent partner, Niall Breslin, nodding along. Sophia’s gorgeous, but rather deadly looking. Louis wouldn’t want to bid against her.

 

Apparently Harry has none of Louis’ compunction.

 

“One seven,” Harry says before Sophia’s voice even fades from the air. Shocked, Louis whips his head around to where Harry is standing. He gives Louis a little disparaging shrug. And honestly, Louis _can’t_ blame him. The thing looks evil.

 

“Two,” Niall bids again.

 

“Two five,” Sophia says. She sounds perfectly calm and perfectly determined to win this sabotage.

 

“Three,” Niall responds instantly. Harry doesn’t chime in this time. Maybe he’s decided to let Niall and Sophia battle it out.

 

“Three three,” Sophia answers.

 

“Three seven,” Niall cries, his features animated and a little bit desperate. Harry leans over and whispers to Louis that Niall gets dizzy really, _really_ easily. Which definitely explains his desire to win.

 

Sophia demurs and Niall does win the sabotage for three thousand seven hundred pounds.

 

Louis almost certainly expects him to saddle Sophia and the other Niall with the awful contraption. He doesn’t really even contemplate the possibility that Niall will gesture wildly at Harry and declare that he’s always wanted to see his good friend run around a table.

 

Louis feels panic rising in his throat. It must show because Harry leans over again. “It’ll be fine, Lou, promise. We’re lucky it’s just pancakes. I could whip those up upside-down.”

 

Louis chokes out a laugh. “Don’t give Alton any ideas.” He absolutely means it. If they’re saddled with anything else, he’s not sure they’re going to make it out of this week.

 

“Thirty minutes to make breakfast,” Alton cries out, and suddenly there’s a lazy susan prep station and Harry is rather effortlessly jogging around it as he pours flour into a bowl.

 

“Louis,” Harry says like he’s not currently running around a circling table, “get a skillet and a small saucepan from the equipment shelves.”

 

Louis is getting dizzy even watching Harry and it’s only been a minute. He’s grateful to be able to turn away and go scrounge up the equipment that Harry’s requested.

 

“The raspberries into a pan with some sugar,” Harry barks out, still fairly pleasant, even though the table has begun to diabolically spin even faster.

 

“How much sugar?” Louis asks, and his own voice is definitely panicked—even higher and even squeakier than usual.

 

“Oh, a good shake or two.” Harry glances over as Louis experimentally shakes some sugar from the plastic container into the saucepan. “That’s good,” he says, and Louis sets it on the stove.

 

Harry instructs Louis to turn the heat on high. “We’re making blueberry sour cream pancakes with raspberry syrup,” he informs Alton when he drifts over by their station, no doubt interested in seeing how well his evil invention is crippling them.

 

But Harry, as far as Louis can tell, is completely unconcerned. He whisks eggs into sour cream, pours in vanilla and even manages to pretty successfully grate the rind of a lemon into his pitcher of wet ingredients.

 

Every few rotations, he’ll glance over to Louis for an update on the raspberries. As far as Louis can tell, they’re bubbling away fine.

 

The first problem happens when the table slows unexpectedly, and Louis gasps out loud as Harry’s elbow catches on the edge of the blueberry carton, sending it flying all over the floor underneath their station.

 

“Shit,” Harry yells. Niall glances up from where he’s bent over his cutting board. His _stationary_ cutting board.

 

“Guess you’re making sour cream pancakes _sans_ blueberries,” Niall cackles. “Tough luck, mate.”

 

“All your fault,” Harry insists. There’s an edge of frustration to his voice, but it’s still mostly pleasant.

 

“Is this going to be okay?” Louis hisses over at Harry.

 

Harry just shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. We’ll make it work. No point in crying over spilled blueberries.” He shoots Louis a quick smile and Louis tries to smile back, but he’s not feeling it. Something uncertain is roiling at the base of his stomach and he’s just not ready for this to be over, okay? Not like this, not over a stupid rotating table and some blueberries.

 

He looks over to Ben and Perrie’s station, praying that the other sabotage recipient is doing worse than he and Harry are. At this point, it might come down to whoever makes the most mistakes out of the two of them.

 

Perrie is bent over the campfire, shaking a skillet with what Louis thinks are potatoes. Ben is coaching her, and it doesn’t seem to be going well. Perrie’s face is blotched with red and Ben looks like he’s about to throw the skillet across the room.

 

It cheers Louis just enough. He turns back to Harry. “I think we might be okay,” he says quietly. “Just have to hold on, okay?”

 

“I said, we’re good,” Harry says but Louis isn’t sure that Harry’s even buying what he’s selling. He’s begun to lag behind the table just a half a step and he looks exhausted, his own face flushed and sweaty. There’s only one circumstance under which Louis wants Harry to look flushed and sweaty and it’s not while cooking pancakes.

 

“We’re really close to finishing up the batter, then you can have a break,” Louis pleads with as much encouragement as he can muster. “So close, Harry!”

 

It must help, because Harry makes one last push, pouring the wet ingredients into the dry and folding them as efficiently as he can while actually chasing them around the table.

 

“Heat the skillet,” Harry instructs. “Lots of butter. But make sure it doesn’t burn.”

 

Harry carefully pulls off the batter off the table and hands it to Louis, who cradles it like he’d carry one of his baby sisters. With respect and care. This is Harry’s future, in his hands. _His_ future, too, he’s begun to think.

 

Harry walks over to the stove, and examines the raspberries. “Those will need to come off the heat,” he says, and Louis reaches over and pulls them off.

 

“Have to puree them yet, and then strain them,” Harry points out.

 

Louis glances up from where he’s carefully monitoring the melting butter in the skillet. “While you’re on the rotating table?” he squeaks.

 

Harry shrugs, but even he has finally given up on trying to seem positive about it. “What a beastly sabotage,” he admits. “I’m gonna kill Niall.”

 

“I’ll help you,” Louis offers.

 

Harry reaches over and squeezes Louis’ arm. “Knew you would, darling.”

 

“Twelve minutes,” Alton announces and Louis feels his heart race.

 

“Should I start?” Louis asks worriedly.

 

“One scoop of batter, carefully,” Harry says.

 

Louis has just finished pouring the first pancake, his heart in his throat, when Harry leans in a bit closer, clearly on the pretext of examining how Louis did. “I think Perrie and Ben are yelling at each other,” Harry whispers.

 

Louis surreptitiously glances over two stations, to where the campfire is set up. And there are definitely some raised voices and poisonous looks being exchanged. “We can only hope it’s enough to ruin their dish,” Harry confesses. “I couldn’t be a hundred percent sure on the proportions of the batter. It was really tough.”

  
“You did great,” Louis insists. “Nobody could have done better.”

 

“Time to flip,” Harry says.  Louis slides the spatula under the first pancake with one purposeful movement—“like you mean it, Louis,” Harry coaches—and flips the pancake, uttering one long prayer the whole heart-stopping moment its in the air.

 

They stare at the exposed side. Louis flinches.

 

“Turn the heat down.” Harry says it like it’s no big deal, but even Louis can see the rather crisp edges of the pancake. He was too busy chatting with Harry to focus on what he was cooking. He can’t help but berate himself.

 

“I’m going to finish the raspberry syrup,” Harry says and heads back over to the hell contraption with the food processor in hand.

 

Louis, without Harry to distract him, focuses solely on the pancakes, making sure to flip them accurately and when all the bubbles have burst in the middle. He works for the last ten minutes and with a few to spare, he has a full plate to deliver to Harry.

 

Thankfully, Harry has managed to use the food processor without any accidents, and as the assistants take away the diabolical prep station, he finishes straining the sauce.

 

Harry has just enough time to plate the pancakes and to artistically drizzle on the syrup, then to dust the top with powdered sugar.

 

When the timer buzzes indicating the thirty minutes is up, Louis doesn’t think or even hesitate. He feels like he’s been close to throwing up for the full time, and all he feels is relief that it’s over. He flings his arms around Harry and squeezes hard. He doesn’t care that they’re covered in sweat and unidentified food gunk. All he feels is bliss that they’ve made it through with a full, delicious-looking plate of food to show for it.

 

It isn’t until Louis pulls away that he remembers there’s a camera on them. And that hug was pretty obvious.

 

It’s impossible to know if their impromptu embrace will make the cut, but Louis has a feeling it will.

 

All the competitors are shuffled into the big green room while the judging is set up. With the numbers dwindling each week, there’s been more mingling. And there will be even more mingling at Niall’s party.

 

“You two looked like you were havin’ a real good time.” Louis knows from the distinctive accent that the voice probably belongs to Niall, but he still glances up and is surprised at how bright his smile is.

 

“Thanks, really, Nialler. No need for Christmas or birthday gifts this year,” Harry retorts sarcastically, but with fondness evident in his voice. He’s not mad. Even when Niall could have gotten them kicked off. Louis is more than a little surprised. “You’ve given me just about all I can handle.”

 

“Awww, that’s not true at all.” Niall actually legitimately giggles. “I hear you can take quite a bit, Styles.”

 

Harry blushes and Louis thinks he must be even redder than Harry is. “Just takin’ the piss,” Niall explains, slapping a hand on Louis’ back. “He can’t stop talking about you, mate.”

 

Louis’ mouth gapes and of course, _of fucking course_ , that’s when the assistant calls them back to the kitchens for judging.

 

His stomach winds into tighter and tighter knots as the judging trio makes their way down the line of plates. This week they’re near the end, and Louis doesn’t think he can take the pressure.

 

He doesn’t even care if the camera records it. Shamelessly, he reaches out and grabs Harry’s hand, using the reassuring weight of it to ground him.

 

Simon, Geoffrey and Ree start with Liam and Zayn. Louis is still bitter over what happened last week and has zero compunction about half-sneering as the judges take small, speculative bites of the English breakfast they’ve prepared.

 

“I’ll confess, first I love beans, but I don’t get them for breakfast,” Ree says, her Oklahoma twang rather adorable. Louis has already been eyeing her bright turquoise cowboy boots.

 

“Beans in an English breakfast is rather _de rigueur_ ,” Geoffrey explains and Ree just laughs. “I know,” she says. “But so weird to me. They’re delicious regardless.”

 

Louis goes from a half-sneer to a full sneer. He’s totally allowed to be competitive, okay?

 

“The eggs are a bit overcooked,” Simon points out. “And I would’ve liked a bit more of a crisp on the bacon and sausage. But overall, well done.”

 

Louis glares as the judges move on and he sees Zayn and Liam turn to each other with success and happiness. He would give _anything_ for he and Harry to be able to do that after the judges taste their pancakes.

 

The next group up is Niall Breslin and Sophia. Sophia spent all that money on the campstove, and it’s no surprise that with their only sabotage being that Sophia had to cook their food, there’s nothing seriously wrong with their French toast.

 

“One side of this looks a bit overcooked and the other a bit undercooked,” Ree says apologetically. “But the flavor is delicious. I especially like the hint of nutmeg, and what else is that?”

 

“Rum,” Niall confirms. “I like to think of this as my eggnog French toast. Perfect for the holidays.”

 

“Delicious,” Geoffrey comments, and Louis can’t help it, he’s growing even more nervous.

 

Good for him, Ben and Perrie are up next and their tiny skillet of potatoes and eggs looks really depressing. If Louis isn’t mistaken, he can even see a bit of a char on their food. Things are not looking good for them.

 

“This is burned,” Simon says pretty matter-of-factly.

 

“I’d really like to have more food here,” Ree explains. “When I make breakfast for my crew, they’d eat about ten of these tiny little skillets.”

 

Really, that’s all that needs said. Louis just prays that he and Harry’s pancakes are even slightly better than Ben and Perrie’s skillets. His attitude feels so far from how they began, but at this point, he only wants to stay in the competition.

 

Ree, Geoffrey and Simon stop in front of Louis and Harry’s station. Louis’ heartbeat is careening wildly in his chest. He hopes its not so loud the camera can pick up on the sound.

 

“Pancakes,” Harry says politely. “With raspberry syrup.”

 

“The color is so beautiful,” Ree observes as she digs into her portion.

 

“Pancakes are a bit dry and a bit eggy,” Simon says. Louis’ heart feels like it skips a bit.

 

“Overall, pretty good,” Geoffrey finishes up and suddenly they’re moving on and nothing horrible and awful happened. Nobody even made a face.

 

Louis feels some relief, and from the way Harry’s hand squeezes his, he knows he does too, but he won’t feel completely safe until its announced they haven’t been eliminated.

 

It doesn’t help that the next pair, the judges go wild over. “What a gorgeous omelet,” Geoffrey raves. “A perfect example of a classic French omelet.” Louis has no idea how James was able to pull out a perfect omelet out of his arse, but it doesn’t seem fair, really. Even though he _does_ like James.

 

Niall and Melissa are up next.

 

“Steak and eggs,” Niall explains.

 

“My steak is pretty well done,” Ree says, picking at hers. “I do like a more rare portion.”

 

“Mine’s alright,” Simon comments. “But a more consistent preparation is probably something you should work on.”

 

The contestants are shuffled back to the green room to give the judges some time to confer.

 

“I liked her boots,” Louis murmurs to Harry as they sit in the corner. This time the whole mood of the green room is different. Nobody wants to be sent home and nobody got a perfect critique.

 

“Maybe we should visit Oklahoma sometime,” Harry suggests, a smile on his face.

 

“Personally I much prefer more sun and more beach than the Midwest of America has to offer,” Louis sniffs.

  
“And cocktails with an umbrella.” Harry giggles.

 

“So right, Bananas.”

 

After what feels like an eternity, they’re brought back to their stations for the good (and bad) news.

 

“A lot of wonderful food today,” Alton says. “As is popularly said, breakfast is the most important meal of the day.” He pauses and the tension in the room seems to grow. “Today, in third place, we have Niall Horan and Melissa Whitelaw. Second, Niall Breslin and Sophia Smith. First, Paul Higgins and James Cordon.”

 

There’s very little surprise for Louis at the announcement. He knew they were a huge longshot for a placement this week. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt a little. Especially considering how much they both wanted to win this week.

 

“That leaves three pairs that are available for elimination. Louis and Harry, Ben and Perrie, and Liam and Zayn.”

 

Louis feels Harry take a deep breath next to him. As hard as this is for Louis, he can’t even imagine how hard this must be for Harry. This is his dream of his own bakery. Louis’ career is already well on its way to being mended. Harry still needs all the help he can get.

 

“Louis and Harry—the judges thought your pancakes were a little dry and overcooked. Ben and Perrie—your skillets were small and the contents were burned. Liam and Zayn—inconsistent cooking of the eggs and meat on your offering.”

 

Alton pauses again and Louis wants to scream.

 

“Safe are Zayn and Liam.”

 

Louis’ pulse rabbits. That means it came down to them and Ben and Perrie. He can only pray that burned is worse than dry.

 

“And eliminated today, Ben and Perrie. Sorry guys.”

 

It takes a long moment for Louis to realize that it’s not their name that Alton called. It’s not their name and by some sort of miracle, even though they pushed their chances to the very edge, they’re _safe_. They’re not leaving. Harry’s dream is still intact.

 

Louis’ knees sag in relief and he’s about to turn to Harry when a big strong pair of arms wraps him up and lifts him off the floor. It’s instinct but he just wraps his legs around Harry’s waist and lets Harry cart him around the kitchen like they’ve just won, not that they barely didn’t get eliminated.

 

And if he whispers into Harry’s shoulder that he loves him, it doesn’t matter because nobody can hear him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [my tumblr](http://bethaboolou.tumblr.com/)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you again to [Liz](http://cuethetommo.tumblr.com/) for being a fantastic beta and holding my hand through this. I've already started on chapter 6. there will be 8 chapters of story with an epilogue.

Of course, Harry apologizes the moment they’re alone in their green room.

 

“God, Lou, I’m so sorry,” he murmurs into the curve of Louis’ neck as they embrace again. Louis doesn’t think his heart has really slowed down yet, and it’s all he can do to hang onto Harry as he holds him close and tight.

 

“It’s not your fault,” Louis insists, even as his heart continues to race. He can’t believe they came so close to losing it all and over something as silly as a lazy susan prep table and some pancakes.

 

Not only does Louis desperately want Harry to win so he can launch his own bakery, he knows that he and Harry have yet to really talk about what’s going on between them. It doesn’t make sense that Harry could disappear out of his life if they were no longer dependent on _Kitchen Wars_ to keep them together.

 

Louis will often wake up to a text from Harry. A picture of whatever he’s baking or a cute emoji or even a simple, “good morning”—and every single morning it’s enough to put a smile on Louis’ face as he drags his lazy arse to the kitchen for a cup of tea.

 

They’ll text throughout the day and Louis has taken to sending him tiny little snippets of songs—though he’s _always_ careful to make sure none of the lyrics are pointedly about Harry, even though the majority of the album seems Harry-inspired so far. Louis has to ignore Julian’s knowing smirk at all the green eyes that inhabit the lyrics Louis has written over the last few weeks.

 

They’ve gone on less than ten dates yet somehow Harry has claimed  an undeniably permanent part of Louis’ life.

 

So while logically, Louis _knows_ Harry isn’t going anywhere, his heart still stutters at even the tiniest fraction of a possibility that he might.

 

When Louis holds Harry tight back and moves his lips against Harry’s shoulder, saying all the things that he hasn’t had the nerve to say out loud, that’s why.

 

“You’re not mad?” Harry asks when they finally pull away from each other. Louis can’t seem to unglue his gaze from Harry’s face. He hopes if Harry notices, he’ll chalk it up to the near miss they just experienced.

 

“Of course I’m not mad!” Louis exclaims. “We had a shit sabotage and it’s amazing we even managed to put something on the plate. You did the very best you could and the fact we’re not packing for home right now is all on you, Bananas.”

 

Harry leans in and rests his head back on Louis’ shoulder. He’s got inches on Louis, both in height and _everywhere_ , really, but he can also make himself small when it comes to Louis. Like he needs Louis’ comfort and nobody has _ever_ needed Louis for that before.

 

“You’re a peach.” Harry’s expression morphs into a dimpled grin and Louis can finally relax a little more. He doesn’t want to listen to Harry blame himself for what almost happened. It’s not his fault. It’s that _stupid_ Niall Horan’s. Louis grimaces internally. He thought that kid was supposed to be a good friend of Harry’s, but he just did everything he could do knock them out of the competition.

 

“That’s me bum,” Louis laughs as Harry’s face contorts into an exaggerated expression of pure bliss.

 

Harry’s big hand slides down his back and rests just above the bum in question. “A peachy bum it is, darling.”

 

“Oi!” Louis yelps. “If you keep that up we’re going to miss the party.”

 

Harry moves his hand but he looks so disappointed, Louis feels a flare of heat anyway. He pushes it away. “I’m going to go grab a quick shower,” he says.

 

“You mean it won’t be quick if I join you?” Harry asks with a sinful smirk. He twists closer, and there his body is, pressed to Louis’. It would be quite easy to spend the whole evening getting lost in each other. Too easy, almost. And Louis is determined to have a very intimidating conversation with Niall.

 

Louis levels a look at Harry, who is trying and failing at looking innocent. “Absolutely not and you know it.”

 

“Fine, fine,” Harry says, and shuffles back an inch with a bashful grin. “It’s just you’re so. . .so. . .well. . .something.”

 

Louis leans in and pecks Harry on the cheek. It’s quick and fleeting but it’s enough to make Louis’ blood pump a bit faster in his veins. “Trust me, the feeling’s mutual.”

 

He takes a quick shower, keeping the temperature a lot cooler than he normally enjoys, and tries to will his dick to not be interested in taking things to the next level.

 

The problem with that is that he walks out of the tiny bathroom and there’s Harry, shirt already stripped off, bending over his bag that’s resting on the couch.

 

He’s all slim legs and smooth muscled back and hair falling over one shoulder. Louis is entranced, frozen in place, his heart pumping blood per normal, but all it really sounds like is three words being repeated insistently over and over again.

 

Harry turns around then, and a deep dimple emerges when he realizes that Louis was staring.

 

“Guess it _is_ mutual,” Harry sing-songs as he saunters past Louis into the shower.

 

Louis dresses, squeezing parts of him into his tight jeans that really do not want to be squeezed right now. He’s wishing that he’d spent longer in the shower or taken a colder one, but it’s too late and he’s going to have to go through the whole night with a low level buzz of arousal running through his veins. Of course, not that Harry will mind, but then Harry doesn’t have to mingle with his fellow contestants with a hard-on.

 

He’s fixing his hair in the mirror when Harry walks out, towel wrapped around his narrow waist. Harry drops the towel nonchalantly, and Louis can’t help but stare in the mirror, his eyes glued to Harry’s cock, hard and red, brushing up against his belly. It makes his mouth water and his insides melt into mush and _how are they going to make it through the next five hours._

 

Louis glances up, and his eyes catch Harry’s in the mirror. Harry’s watching Louis as Louis watches him. His insides go from mush to lava and his hand is trembling as he reaches up to smooth down his fringe.

 

“We . . uh. . .I. . .uh. . .” Louis stumbles. He doesn’t have enough blood in his head right now to sound remotely coherent. “I’ll wait outside,” he finally gets out and he escapes the room, tugging at the tight collar of his shirt because _god_ , how did it get so warm?

 

He’d think it was only him, but when Harry emerges, his cheeks are flushed and his lips are bitten raw. Louis straightens his shoulders and tells himself that if they can make it through the party without fucking in the loo, they deserve an award.

 

They take a cab to the restaurant where Niall works, which has been closed for the night. Harry sidles up tight against Louis and when his big hand settles high and hard on Louis’ thigh. Louis clears his throat and tries to imagine that it hasn’t just turned into the Sahara desert.

 

“You okay?” Harry asks softly. There’s so much care in his voice and it amazes Louis because he’s never had the kind of moment with someone like he had with Harry in the green room _and_ had them care about him, too. It’s raw sexuality tempered with what Louis hopes might be love.

 

He’s not lying when he snuggles closer to Harry and looks up at him with stars in his eyes. “I’m good,” he says. “ _Great_ , in fact.”

 

\---

 

Niall’s restaurant is a great barn of a place, all exposed rafters and brick and rustic furniture. Harry shrugs at Louis’ questioning look when they walk in. “He grills,” Harry says by way of explanation. “Not for the vegetarian at heart.”

 

There’s a DJ set up in the corner, playing music softly, and several groups of people clustered through the big open room. They head to the bar where Niall is unsurprisingly holding court. “Haz!” Niall exclaims, moving so fast to embrace Harry and then Louis that he’s really surprised that beer doesn’t slosh over the rim of his glass. “Let’s get you drinks.”

 

“This place is something else,” Louis says to Niall as Harry deals with the bartender.

 

“It’s ridiculous,” Niall admits, “but I can still grill you a steak that’ll make you weep.”

 

Harry places a glass in Louis’ hand and he glances down to find, to his surprise, a vodka soda, his usual drink of choice. There’s even a sliver of lime balanced on the rim of the glass, _exactly_ the way he likes it. He takes an experimental sip and even the brand of vodka is right.

 

He shoots Harry a thankful glance, but that doesn’t mean he understands at all. He’s nearly certain they’ve never talked about Louis’ cocktail of choice before.

 

“Maybe we’ll have to come to dinner here sometime,” Louis says. He wants to imagine a future with Harry where they have the time and opportunity to go on dinner dates like any normal couple would.

 

“I heard Harry already took you to _Sur Ma Langue_.” Niall makes an expressive face and Louis can’t help but laugh out loud. He’s quite funny, this friend of Harry’s. Even if he’s just tried to oust them from the competition. “Very posh of you, Haz.”

 

Harry just shrugs. “I like to make a good first impression.”

 

Niall throws back his head and downright _cackles_. Louis doesn’t understand what’s so hilarious. He takes another sip of his drink and prides himself on absolutely _not_ choking on it when Harry’s hand settles firm and warm against his back. Like they’re here together. Like they’re _dating_.

 

“Oh, I bet you do.” Niall turns to Louis. “You wouldn’t believe how ridiculous Harry was for you when you were on _The X-Factor_. Never missed an episode. Followed your twitter. Even had to talk him out of going to try to catch you like all the other fan girls a few times. Proper besotted, he was.”

 

Louis doesn’t know what’s more surprising: Niall’s story or the way Harry’s hand tightens on his back as Niall tells it.

 

“Oh that’s. . .” Louis is legitimately floundering for words. He had no idea Harry felt that way about him back then. It’s reassuring somehow, and nice, and also not at all what he was expecting to hear.

 

“It’s most definitely weird,” Harry inserts, and he doesn’t sound very happy at all. “Thank you, Nialler, for making me sound like a proper creep.”

 

“Oh, Haz, it’s cute. Honestly. I bet Louis thinks it’s endearing. Right, Lou?”

 

Louis turns to Harry. He’s got apprehension in his eyes, but they fade as Louis gives him the warmest smile he can. “It’s fucking adorable,” Louis says softly and the rest of the fear disappears out of Harry’s face.

 

“Oi! You two are ridiculous,” Niall chuckles. “Gonna go make the rounds. Have fun you two and don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”

 

“What wouldn’t he do?” Louis asks as they wander over to an appetizer station. He picks up a beef skewer and nibbles at it.

 

Harry laughs. He hands his drink to Louis and they juggle plates and cups, filling both before heading to one of the tall tables scattered with candles. “Not much, honestly.”

 

“I had a feeling,” Louis confides across the table, enjoying Harry’s conspiratorial smile in the candlelight.

 

“What,” Harry asks lowly, that gruff edge back that never fails to make Louis think of sex, “are you suggesting we get up to tonight, Peaches?”

 

“Nothing in particular,” Louis retorts, but his voice betrays him. It’s high and airy—everything it was when he begged Harry to fuck him into the mattress. And Harry must recognize it because his eyes darken. Suddenly there’s a new layer of electricity humming between them and the succulent Thai-marinated beef turns to dust in Louis’ mouth.

 

He mentally revises his earlier estimate and thinks that if they last through the next hour without fucking in the bathroom, they should win the prize.

 

The DJ announces that dancing is going to be starting soon, and his music returns after the pause with a bit more bass and as he finishes his drink, the alcohol and the heavy rhythm settle low in his stomach. He’s also a bit grateful for the cover of the dim room, because he has a feeling if he dances with Harry, it’s not going to stay tame for very long.

 

“I was going to ask if you danced,” Harry says, also finishing his drink and setting it with a decisive click on the surface of the table. “But I saw you plenty on _The X-Factor._ ”

 

Harry’s got that feral look in his eyes right now, the light green glowing unearthly. He’s looking at Louis like he’s his favorite snack, and suddenly it’s a few degrees hotter and Louis’ collar has become unbearably tight.

 

“You mean _wanked_ to me plenty on _The X-Factor_ ,” Louis retorts. He blames the collar on how high and squeaky his voice sounds.

 

Harry gives an entirely unrepentant shrug and it does _things_ to Louis’ insides. The idea of Harry, not even knowing him, but wanking to him anyway—to a younger and twinkier and sassier version, even.

 

“I was a mess back then,” Louis says.

 

The look Harry shoots him is downright lewd, and then he leans in, his breath tickling the hair above Louis’ ear. “You mean, I wanted to make a mess out of you,” he corrects softly but firmly. Louis’ blood _boils_. He’s never really been into this sort of thing before, but the hard edge to Harry’s voice is the hottest thing he’s ever heard.

 

Harry glances over to where people have streamed onto the dance floor, and nods towards it. “Join me?”

 

Louis’ hand might tremble a little as Harry takes it and they walk to the dancefloor.

 

It’s a slower jam and Harry’s hands settle inexorably on Louis’ hips, warm and big and practically spanning his waist. Louis moves his arse a little experimentally and he can feel Harry’s fingers dig into his jeans. It’s a heady feeling, knowing without a single doubt that as worked up as Louis is by Harry, Harry is just as worked up by Louis and at the end of the night, they’re going to go home and unleash all this pent up energy in the bedroom.

 

_If_ they make it home first, Louis corrects himself.

 

Harry doesn’t have great rhythm but Louis more than makes up for it and it only takes a few moments for them to move together like they’ve never been apart. Louis throws his head back and groans a bit. He can feel Harry’s breath hot on his neck, and when he brushes his lips across the nape, they’re even hotter.

 

The slower song segues into something faster and more intense and Louis twists in Harry’s hands, facing him and running his own palms up Harry’s shirt, feeling the insistent fluttering of Harry’s heart. His eyes are intent, staring at Louis like he desperately wants to memorize every molecule of Louis’ mind and his body.

 

“You’re beautiful,” Louis murmurs, reaching up to catch just the corner of Harry’s lips with his own. Harry pulls back, startled and eyes growing wild.

 

“Not yet,” he mouths over the loud music. Louis thinks he understands. If they kiss now, there’s no way they’ll make it home. As it is, there’s about a ten percent chance it’ll happen, and Louis wants it all, wants way more than just a quick fuck in the loo with Harry.

 

Louis crowds right into Harry’s space, can practically count the palest freckles on his nose. It still doesn’t feel close enough, but it’s going to have to do to. Louis tangles his fingers in into the curls at the back of Harry’s neck and smirks at the low groan he makes.

 

They take a break after another few songs to quench their thirst, and Niall shows up briefly at the bar to egg them into doing shots, which neither puts up much of a fight on, and then they melt back into the crowd.

 

They’re both definitely a bit tipsy and any compunction either of them seemed to have before about being too handsy has disappeared completely. Louis dimly realizes that he’s grinding against Harry’s firm thigh and it feels so bloody amazing he can’t really find it in himself to care. Harry’s hands have crept lower and lower on his backside, until they’re hovering right over the curve of his arse. Louis wants it so much he doesn’t even care if anyone sees. He rises up and whispers right into Harry’s ear. Pleads, practically. “Do it,” he purrs, and Harry’s fingers bite down hard and unrelenting and Louis groans at how good it is.

 

“Good boy,” Louis says and settles back to watch Harry’s reaction. It’s immediate and electric. His eyes blink once, then twice, and then there’s only one hand on his arse and the other is wrapped around Louis’ wrist and tugging him insistently to the edge of the dance floor and then heading towards a corridor.

 

Louis stops in his tracks, despite the grip that Harry has on his wrist, when he sees the sign that indicates this is the direction of the loos. Yes, his cock is hard and it’s been hard for way too long, but he isn’t so far gone that he’s willing to settle for a quickie in the loo when he could have a nice long fuck in a bed.

 

“Wait,” Louis whines. And yes he does absolutely whine. His cock is probably going to kill him, when he could’ve had some much-needed release. “Not the loo.”

 

Harry gives him a sweet, lopsided smile. “Not the loo,” he confirms. “Niall’s office.”

 

There’s a moment of hesitation. It’s kind of not cool for Harry to use his mate’s office for a hookup. But then, Niall _did_ sabotage them today. Did nearly oust them from the competition. Louis decides the payback is _just_ enough.

 

The ferocity of Harry’s lust combined with that adorable smile is just about the last of what Louis thinks he can take. He’s appallingly grateful when Harry types some numbers into a keypad next to an unmarked door and ushers them into a dark room. There’s the dark shadows of furniture and Louis has a split second to think it _might_ be an office, before Harry’s on him, hands reaching for his cheeks, holding him still and steady and at the perfect angle to kiss him deep and dirty.

 

Louis whimpers into Harry’s mouth. He can’t help himself. Kissing Harry always feels like a sensory overload, but after the last few hours, his nerves are already strung so tight. Harry’s lips short-circuit them completely, leaving Louis limp and mindless, touching Harry wherever he can, fingers coasting over smooth muscled planes of his back, tangling in his hair, moaning without a single care for anyone who can hear as Harry rips his mouth away from Louis’ and instantly attaches it to his neck.

 

Their desperation feels a bit reminiscent of the first time they slept together, when Louis thought he might explode if he wasn’t able to touch Harry, but now that he knows just how miraculous they are together, his need only feels greater.

 

Louis hopes that Harry might feel the same way. The way his mouth coasts up his neck, nibbling on the tendon, tasting him, and his hands roam over every inch of him, Harry certainly seems to want him just as much.

 

Harry lifts his head and his voice is so rough, Louis’ knees actually wobble a little. “Turn around,” he says, and it’s not a request. With anybody else, Louis might protest that he’s not some little twink to be manhandled around, _thank you very much_ , but with Harry, it just feels natural. Like he’s somehow unlocked something inside Louis that he never thought he even wanted.

 

So he turns around, pressing his hands on the flat wooden surface of what must be a desk. Harry practically growls and Louis nearly growls back as he feels Harry’s hands go up to bracket his hips and he feels Harry’s mouth bite his arse through his jeans.

 

If Louis can stay upright, it’s going to be a miracle.

 

“Beg,” Harry says. It’s not so much of a demand as before, there’s a tiny bit of wiggle room there, in his voice, and Louis knows that if he wanted to, he could take it. Or he could give in and beg the way he wants to and Harry wants him to.

 

In the end, it’s one of the easiest choices Louis has ever made. He begs.

 

“God, please, Harry,” he whines, “make me feel good. Make me come.”

 

Harry’s hands reach around, unbutton and unzip his jeans, and slide them down his ankles. Louis whimpers. He thinks he knows what’s coming and it feels like both a nightmare but also a fantasy.

 

“This okay?” Harry asks, his voice so low, Louis can barely hear it. That might also have something to do with the fact that Harry’s pulled down his pants and he’s kissing and licking and nibbling the curve of Louis’ arse. _Worshipping_ it, really.

 

“Yes,” is all Louis can get out.

 

“Your arse. . .” Harry groans against his skin. “Such a peach, peaches.”

 

Louis’ hands clench the edge desk so he won’t just slid down onto the floor, a puddle of mush.

 

And then Harry uses those big warm hands to spread his cheeks and Louis feels the first tentative lick of his tongue and thinking isn’t an option anymore, Louis can only feel.

 

There’s the gentle roughness of his tongue as Harry slides it across the wet clench of his hole, the dizziness when he screws it in, opening him up. Louis thinks he must black out a little when Harry slides a wet finger through his crack and teases mercilessly against where his tongue is buried. It’s too much and Louis sobs a little, overwhelmed and in love and not even sure he’s speaking words anymore. There’s just tiny whimpers and moans and sounds that might have been English at some point, but he’s long lost the thread. He only needs Harry. Harry’s what makes sense of this world. Harry’s lips and his tongue and his fingers.

 

Harry bumps him and his cock, beyond painfully hard in his pants, hits against the edge of the desk and Louis nearly screams. It hurts and it feels good, feels amazing, even. If only because he got some friction finally.

 

The finger delves deeper into him, hitting his spot and Harry chuckles at Louis’ moan. “Yeah, baby,” Harry murmurs, “gonna make you feel so good.”

 

“More,” Louis manages to get out between sobs. “Yeah, more.”

 

“Gonna come from my fingers and my tongue,” Harry croons, more of a statement than a question. Louis remembers the pleasurable sting of his cock hitting the edge of the desk and just nods, even though there’s no possibility Harry could see him. Harry will know. Harry _always_ knows.

 

Another finger, insistent on his rim, tracing where he’s already split open. Harry soothes its entrance with spit and laves of his tongue. “Yeah you like that,” Harry announces, so smug when Louis cries out at how good it is.

 

He’s never told Harry, he couldn’t possibly know, but rimming always overwhelms him so completely and so easily, and he can come so easily from having his arse played with. Somehow Harry _must_ know this because he just expects Louis to come and so Louis does, the pleasure hot and insistent as it hits him hard. He spurts into his pants and clenches down tight around Harry’s fingers.

 

“So good, peaches,” Harry says with a rewarding little pat on his arse cheek. “Always good for me.”

 

Louis’ knees would give out then but Harry must know because he’s right there, bracing him from behind. With a start, Louis realizes that Harry’s pants are down too and his cock is out, hot and heavy and pushing up against Louis’ bare arse.

 

“Gonna let me come all over you, won’t you baby,” Harry murmurs and again it’s not even a question and Louis doesn’t even care. Just feels blissed out from his orgasm and wants Harry to feel as good as he does right now.

 

Harry’s cock slides so easily into his crack, wet with saliva and precome and all it takes is a few thrusts and Harry’s coming all over his back, the splatters hot and gooey on his bare skin.

 

“Fuck,” Harry swears, his voice low and trembling. He holds Louis there for a moment, come everywhere and then gently pushes him forward, making sure Louis’ hands are grasping the edge of the desk. “Hold on babe and I’ll clean us up.”

 

He must know where the tissues are because he’s back in a moment with handfuls of them and efficiently and quickly cleans them up.

 

Harry’s hands reach out and carefully unhook Louis’ from the edge they’ve been gripping. “You’re all good,” he says, and his voice is lighter. Happier. Like whatever they’ve done has made Harry as relaxed as its made Louis.

 

Louis pitches forward a little and buries his face in Harry’s neck. He can’t believe they just did what they did in Niall’s office and he didn’t protest even once. He can’t even comprehend of how much Harry just makes him forget everything he’s ever cared about. His world narrows so completely whenever they’re together, it’s almost frightening.

 

“I know, I know,” Harry soothes, stroking his back with long, calming motions.

 

“I’ve never,” Louis says, regaining a bit of his strength and pulling back so he can look into Harry’s eyes, “I’ve never done that before. Something like that.”

 

Harry’s expression is solemn and careful. “Did you like it?”

 

Louis’ smile is wry, he knows it is. “I think it was obvious I did.”

 

Harry reaches up to stroke Louis’ cheek. “Babe, all I care about is if you _know_ you liked it.”

 

“I did,” Louis confesses, and it doesn’t feel nearly as hard as he thought it might be.

 

“I get a bit out of control with you, I think,” Harry says softly.

 

There’s love burning in the back of Louis’ mouth. “I do too.”

 

Louis thinks he might say it, thinks he is nearly to the point of opening his mouth, as foolish as it might be, when Harry pulls him close, wraps his arms around him and the spell is suddenly broken. Louis doesn’t feel so compelled to confess his love if Harry’s eyes aren’t trying to tempt it out of him.

 

 

\----

 

 

Louis and Harry are puttering around Louis’ flat the next afternoon, the day lazy and slow, consisting of them eating cereal in bed, taking a long, hot shower together, and then promptly returning back to bed to snuggle, when Louis’ phone rings. He doesn’t really want to answer it but it’s Alberto’s special ring—he programmed it when Louis kept ignoring his calls. Louis doesn’t want to tell him that “Call Me Maybe” doesn’t really convince him any more to answer it, but the shrill blast certainly makes Alberto tougher to ignore.

 

Alberto forgoes a greeting and steamrolls right into the business at hand. He only does when he has _really_ exciting news to share, so Louis is a bit breathless as he listens to his agent divulge what he’s just learned.

 

“You and Harry are doing a big interview this week,” Alberto says. “One of the biggest morning shows.”

 

“Great.” Louis doesn’t even bother sounded enthused. He isn’t the biggest fan of interviews in general, and morning show interviews are typically really awful. Full of fluff and zero substance, Louis is not enjoying ignoring his music and his personal life.

 

It hits him then; not only is he not going to have to falsify something exciting, he’s going to have to _lie_ about how good his love life suddenly is. He perks up right as Alberto lets out a frustrated groan.

 

“No. You’re the _only_ pair that was selected to do this interview,” Alberto enunciates. Slowly. Like Louis hasn’t been doing this for four years.

 

Louis is a bit stunned. He knew they were doing well in the competition, despite not having a win under their belt, and he knows they’re probably pretty fun to watch, but _the only couple_.

 

Harry’s gazing over at him like he doesn’t understand anything. Louis switches his phone on speaker. “Tell Harry what this means,” Louis demands.

 

“It means you’re gonna get a really good edit,” Alberto explains.

 

Harry still looks confused. “It means that we’re going to do _really_ well,” Louis murmurs to Harry, bumping their shoulders together and not even trying to hold back his brilliant smile.

 

“Really well,” Alberto repeats.

 

Louis manages to tear his eyes away from Harry’s. They’re gorgeous in this half-light, glowing and ethereal and so fucking happy, Louis never wants to look away. He re-focuses on the phone call because he very clearly understands now why Alberto was so excited about this. “So this interview. . .”

 

He doesn’t even get partway through his sentence before Alberto is barking out requests. “Don’t confirm, don’t deny, play it super coy. You know how, Louis. And all they really need to do is catch the way Harry looks at you, and it’ll all be crystal.”

 

Louis looks over at Harry and he’s blushed bright red. “Also try to get something in about your new music,” Alberto instructs. “The articles about your signing should hit Monday-ish, so it’ll be a great time to talk about it. Mention a few of the songs.” There’s a meaningful pause and Louis understands exactly what Alberto means. He’s supposed to hint at the truth—that he’s essentially writing an album full of love songs about Harry. It’s Louis’ turn to blush, because _he’s writing an album full of love songs about Harry_.

 

“Louis, your stylist is going to send over an outfit. I want you _wear it_ , okay? And Harry, she’ll send something over for you too.”

 

Harry opens his mouth, and Louis is sure he’s about to protest. “Yes and yes,” Louis inserts quickly before Harry can. Harry makes a silly face and Louis giggles. Nothing feels important right now, not even probably the dumb outfit his stylist is going to want him to wear.

 

Alberto gives a few more sets of instructions, and tells Louis he’ll email over the details.

 

After the call, Louis doesn’t feel like he can stay in bed. His blood is fizzing with excitement and he feels light as a feather.

 

But Harry’s definitely still on earth, in fact, he doesn’t look nearly as excited as Louis feels. Not even close.

 

Louis burrows into Harry’s neck. “What’s wrong?” he asks softly, wrapping his arms about Harry’s waist and sending them on a controlled fall backwards into the nest of pillows Louis had gathered for them.

 

Harry is quiet for a long moment. Fear begins to grow deep in Louis; Harry has never, ever shut him out before. With how well everything’s been going between them, he really doesn’t want them to start moving backwards just when Louis was really beginning to hope that Harry loved him too.

 

“I hate interviews,” Harry admits lowly. He laughs, but it doesn’t sound like he finds anything actually funny. “I know, it’s stupid. This is a great thing. But I don’t want to muck it up for you.”

 

“For us,” Louis insists, squeezing Harry tighter. “And you couldn’t possibly. If I haven’t managed to muck up any of our dishes yet, I can’t imagine you messing up an interview. Maybe pretend like it’s just us talking together.”

 

“Just us talking,” Harry repeats.

 

“Just us talking,” Louis reassures him.

 

 

\----

 

“I feel slightly ridiculous,” Harry complains, as he stares in the mirror at the brightly colored shirt he’s wearing. “Like a parrot.”

 

“A gorgeous parrot,” Louis insists loyally, coming up behind him to give him a quick hug, giving no shits about wrinkling the Gucci silk shirt.

 

“It feels nice, though,” Harry admits.

 

Louis reaches over and tweaks another button undone. Harry’s butterfly tattoo is now half-exposed and Harry looks a bit shocked. “What?” Louis asks with a smug smirk. “You look _hot_.”

 

Harry looks back at himself in the mirror. “I don’t know, I’ve never worn anything like this before. I stick to t-shirts and jumpers mainly. No need and no budget for anything fancier, really.”

 

“Mainly I would agree with you,” Louis says. “The stylist is pretty useless most of the time. I ignore about ninety percent of what she sends over. _But_ she did good with you, Bananas.”

 

“It _is_ soft,” Harry says so quietly, his eyes intent on his image in the mirror. “And it’s got such beautiful colors.”

 

“Beautiful colors for a beautiful person,” Louis can’t help but say. He might care about what sort of feelings his words give away, but not right now, not when Harry is staring in the mirror, trying to decide if he feels confident enough to give a television interview wearing this shirt.

 

Harry turns back to Louis, a brilliant smile breaking over his features. “You look gorgeous too, you know,” he says impudently.

 

Louis glances down at the Givenchy t-shirt his stylist sent and his favorite pair of black skinnies. He figures wearing half of what she sent was certainly keeping to the promise he made to Alberto.

 

“I’ll do,” he shrugs.

 

Harry reaches back and slides a big palm into the back pocket of Louis’ tight-fitting jeans. He squeezes a bit possessively and Louis’ mouth instantly goes dry.

 

Of course that’s when there’s a brisk knock on the door. Harry barely gets his hand out before the door opens. Alberto walks in and rolls his eyes. “I leave you alone for _five_ minutes,” he complains, but there’s that particularly bright look in his eyes today—the one Louis _always_ associates with pride at one of Louis’ accomplishments.

 

That doesn’t stop Harry from flushing.

 

“You two ready to go?” Alberto asks. Louis can’t help but notice that Alberto’s eyes are almost primarily resting on Harry. After all, he’s the rookie here; Louis could probably do this kind of interview in his sleep.

 

“All good,” Louis answers for both of them.

 

They move quickly through makeup and getting miked up. They meet Allison, their interviewer, who has kind eyes and a warm smile. Harry relaxes a bit when he sees Allison, and even more when they start chatting about their favorite places to eat in London.

 

By the time they take their seats and the camera starts rolling, Louis is completely positive they’re going to ace this.

 

“Tell me about _Kitchen Wars_ ,” Allison asks and Louis has to give her major props, she sounds like she _actually_ wants to know.

 

“It’s an instrument of torture,” Louis explains, all straight face and deadpan voice.

 

Harry lets out a huge belly laugh, literally just throws his head back and cackles, like Louis is the funniest person on earth. It’s a pretty good feeling, if Louis is being honest.

 

“Louis Tomlinson, I heard you were a tease,” Allison says back with a sparkling smile.

 

Louis opens his mouth to say something clever and witty, but before he can speak, Harry jumps in. “You have no idea,” he says, and Louis can _feel_ his knowing smirk.

 

Well. Alberto _did_ say to play it coy and not exactly deny it.

 

Allison raises an eyebrow. “So you both enjoy being tortured?” she asks.

 

“Personally,” Harry jumps in again, and Louis is so proud, he’s sure he’s beaming all over this damn uncomfortable couch, “I signed up because I would love to own my own bakery. Getting Louis as a partner is the real prize though.”

 

“And you, Louis?”

 

“Oh, you know me, I was just sitting around and thought _hey_ , why not do a competition cooking show? Because I love to cook and all.”

 

“Don’t you?”

 

Louis makes his face and shakes his head. “I’m the worst,” he confides, leaning forward a bit. He can work a camera blindfolded. “I feel sorry for poor Harry here, saddled with someone who can’t cook to save their life.”

 

“Is this true, Harry? Louis can’t cook?”

 

Harry frowns. “That’s actually really the brilliant bit about _Kitchen Wars_ , it helps teach the celebrity to cook. Without Louis picking up some culinary skills over the last few weeks, we’d have been sunk. Could he cook when he started? Not really. But he’s learned and caught on so well.”

 

Allison’s smile is cat-got-the-cream personified. “Sounds like you’re a big fan of his, Harry.”

 

“Ever since he was on _The X-Factor_ , to be honest.” Harry sounded a bit ashamed of this fact at Niall’s party, but today, he just owns it, pride bursting from his voice. Louis can’t help it; he blushes. He can almost _feel_ Alberto’s wildly-vacillating rage and excitement as this interview continues.

 

“So you feel like you’re working well together, Louis?”

 

“We’re brilliant together,” Louis says, and it’s the complete truth. He’s never been so much part of a team before. They truly are The Dream Team. He believed they might be back when he first met Harry, but nothing could have really prepared him for the certainty he feels now.

 

“Absolutely bananas brilliant,” Harry echoes.

 

Louis giggles. _Why is Harry so damn cute?_

 

“Louis, I hear you’re back in the studio,” Allison says, shifting directions.

 

“Yeah, I am. With Epic Records. Very excited to be with them. And I’m already back in the studio, recording my new album.”

 

“Anything you can tell us?”

 

Louis hesitates for a split second. Alberto _did_ say to hint and to play it coy, and he absolutely doesn’t want for Harry to find out about the album before he’s ready to tell him. _However_ , Louis feels like he just can’t help himself anymore. He’s been holding all this in and some of it was bound to come out at some point.

 

“It’s about falling in love,” Louis says, and he knows he’s got that sweet Harry smile on his face. “Falling in love with someone special.”

 

“I can’t wait to hear it. It _sounds_ special.” Allison’s knowing grin tells Louis that she understands exactly what he’s talking about.

 

Allison wraps up the interview and it’s over. Done. And probably the most appallingly obvious thing Louis has ever participated in.

 

He doesn’t know whether to be excited or ashamed.

 

Allison shakes their hands and thanks them for such a lovely sit down. “I’ll be rooting for you two to win,” she says with a twinkle in her eye. “You’re a very cute couple. Positively sickening, honestly.”

 

Louis freezes a bit, which is massively ironic, because on the couch, during the actual filming he was as relaxed as he’s ever been on camera. But now, he’s confronted with someone who thinks they know what’s going on and he has no idea what to say. Deny it because he and Harry have never actually discussed whether they’re “together”? Or should he admit it? Louis doesn’t know and before he can figure it out, she’s already moving on, leaving him standing there, fish-mouthed and brainless.

 

Harry is quiet when they get back to the dressing room, carefully unbuttoning and hanging up the Gucci blouse, shrugging on his own t-shirt and jacket and getting his things together to leave.

 

Louis frets, postponing actually leaving by fooling around with his own bag far longer than is truly necessary. He’s both dreading and hoping that Harry will just say something about put him out of his misery.

 

“Why did you freeze back there?” Harry asks, and his voice is more wary than accusatory.

 

Louis still doesn’t know what to say any more now than he did ten minutes ago. So he shrugs. Nice and non-committal.

 

“Did you not like her assuming we were together?” Again, Harry seems more confused than upset, but Louis isn’t taking any chances.

 

“I think most people will get that impression after watching that interview,” Louis says.

 

“But her specifically,” Harry presses. Louis looks down, he can’t actually meet Harry’s eyes when he’s demanding answers and Louis has nothing to give him. “She was asking.”

 

“I didn’t really think so,” Louis says, even though he’s just flat out lying by this point.

 

“I thought so.” Louis glances up and there’s a deep frown line between Harry’s brows.

 

“Did it bother you, her assuming we were together?” Harry continues, clearly not going to leave it alone.

 

“Of course not,” Louis admits. That much he feels is certainly safe.

 

Harry lets out a rather shaky sigh of what might be relief. “Well, then why didn’t you just say we were, silly?”

 

Louis glances up in surprise. “Because we haven’t talked about it?”

 

“I didn’t think it was even really necessary to have a conversation,” Harry confesses, all shy voice and flushed cheeks. “I thought it was pretty obvious we were together.”

 

Louis feels answering relief flood through him. “Oh thank god,” he gets out.

 

Harry flings his arms around him and holds him close. “You are so silly,” he whispers in his ear. “I’m crazy about you, _boyfriend_.”

 

_I’m crazy about you_ isn’t exactly the three words Louis was hoping for, but it’s a really, really good start. He’s not complaining.

 

Also, as they’re leaving, he makes the time to quickly text his stylist and make sure that Harry can keep the Gucci shirt. If he’s going to be lucky enough to be Harry’s boyfriend, he’s going to be the _best_ boyfriend.

 

\--

 

Louis waits until they’re filming to present it to him. There’s no way for Harry to wear it while they’re cooking, but he has an idea that maybe the shirt can be sort of a good luck charm—something they most certainly need. The competition is narrowing; every single pair left is stiff competition, and Louis is still not ready to lose.

 

Not now, not when they are so much closer to getting everything they  both want.

 

Harry’s eyes when he opens the box are worth every bit of the argument Louis had to have with the stylist when she said she couldn’t make it happen.

 

“This is too much,” Harry says immediately, even though his hands are already reaching out to stroke the soft silk.

 

“You’re wrong,” Louis insists. “It’s honestly not enough, but I suppose it’ll have to do.”

 

Harry’s answering smile is bright enough to power a small city and his kiss is passionate enough that Louis is really disappointed when a knock on the door of their green room tells them it’s time to film.

 

Harry seems really relaxed until the judge for this week walks out with Alton and he nearly squeezes Louis’ arm off.

 

“Peaches,” Harry hisses under his breath, “that’s _Nigella_.”

 

Louis, who doesn’t typically get star-struck, is even a bit starry eyed by seeing Nigella here. Harry looks like he’s about to fall over with happiness, and as Louis glances around the room, the remaining contestants aren’t far behind.

 

“Please welcome my guest for this week. I believe she needs no real introduction. Nigella, thank you for joining us.”

 

“I’m honored,” Nigella says with a genuine smile. “I can’t wait to taste what you have for me today.”

 

Harry’s fingers dig even further into Louis’ arm. If the introduction doesn’t end soon, he’s going to lose all feeling.

 

“I believe,” Alton says thoughtfully, as if he’s truly considering this, “we could call you the Queen of British home cuisine. And what would be more British than a traditional Sunday roast?”

 

“That _is_ very traditional,” Nigella says, equally seriously.

 

“Then, that’s what you shall make,” Alton pronounces. “A traditional Sunday roast.”

 

He pauses dramatically. “However, that might be a bit of a problem. A normal Sunday roast might cook for hours, and here at _Kitchen Wars_ , you only get a generous sixty minutes to prepare your dish. So, your cooking time will be divided. Thirty minutes to prepare your roast for the oven and another thirty three hours later, for side dishes, finishing touches, and presentation.”

 

Next to him, Louis feels Harry exhale a sigh of relief. Personally, Louis has never prepared a Sunday roast in his life, but he does remember his mum cooking one on many occasions, and it always was an all-afternoon type of event.

 

“Today,” Alton continues, “we’ll be doing our shop before any of our auction items. Sixty seconds, per usual. Off you go!”

 

Harry grabs their grocery basket and heads off to the pantry at his usual quick clip. Louis watches with interest as he loads up their basket with what looks like a large amount of ingredients. When the minute is up, he heads back to their station, and Louis peers into the basket, not surprised to see a large hunk of meat, lots of fresh herbs, vegetables, potatoes, even rice. Harry has prepared and then prepared again.

 

Except then Alton opens his trap again and sends Louis’ stomach to the floor. “Looks like great baskets. Too bad you’re not going to keep them.” He laughs a bit maniacally and Louis legitimately feels ill. “You’re going to have to switch your basket with another team’s basket. Everyone except for Liam and Zayn that is, a perk of having the most in the bank currently.”

 

“Oh _please_ ,” Harry exhales under his breath. Louis feels similarly annoyed. He thought he was over the foil utensil debacle _but he’s really not_.

 

Alton calls out the pairs, and Harry exchanges their lovely basket of ingredients with James and Paul. Harry instantly goes digging through it and Louis thinks from his thoughtful look as he peruses their new set of ingredients they’re not so bad off. His sick feeling relents a little, but then Alton calls for the first auction item.

 

Oh _yeah_ , that experience wasn’t even a real auction item. They _still_ have those to go. _Joy_.

 

The show assistants wheel out a contraption that has Louis thinking of the Lazy Susan prep table and hoping with every fiber of his being that they _do not_ end up with it. It’s a prep table attached to that diabolical invention—the stair-stepper. Louis is proud of his muscular thighs and bum and even he doesn’t want to put himself through that particular torture.

 

The bidding starts briskly and it’s clearly between Sophia and James right away. Louis can’t say he’s all that surprised. Neither James nor Paul are in the best of shape and he’s sure that both of them are dreading ending up with that disaster of a prep station.

 

James wins the stair stepper with a bid of sixty-two hundred pounds, the highest priced auction item to be bought thus far, and as Louis looks down the line, everyone is a bit shell-shocked by the money that’s suddenly being thrown around.

 

Unsurprisingly, James and Paul give the stair stepper to Sophia and Niall Breslin. No doubt their payment for driving the price up so high.

 

It comes as no additional surprise that the next auction item, a rounded dome of a pan with only the tiniest flat cooking surface, on which _everything_ has to be cooked, goes for another high amount to Sophia and Niall, and they graciously bestow the pain right back to James and Paul.

 

Louis breathes out his own shaky sigh of relief. He and Harry have new ingredients but they have no sabotages. No devilish prep tables or pans or anything else that will prevent them from getting eliminated. As long as they don’t stab themselves in the back, they should be okay.

 

Alton calls their first thirty minute cooking period and he and Harry start to unload their basket.

 

“How different is it from the things you got?” Louis asks, looking at similar ingredients to the ones he originally spotted in their basket.

 

“Very much the same, honestly,” Harry says. “Luckily I was going to go very traditional, and Paul had the same idea.”

 

“So what’s the plan?” Louis asks, leaning over on the counter so that Harry can get a nice look at his arse. Harry shoots him a hot look across the cutting board.

 

“Traditional pork roast, going to stuff it with an herb and dried fruit rice stuffing, with assorted roast vegetables,” says Harry. “Maybe a bit of gravy, as well.”

 

“I love gravy,” Louis admits.

 

“Then definitely some gravy,” Harry smirks.

 

Harry sets Louis to chopping up herbs, while Harry starts the rice stuffing. This means that Louis gets a front seat to the struggle that James and Paul are having over their horrid pan.

 

“I can’t cook on this,” Paul rages. Louis has never seen him rage before, but it’s certainly an interesting look. It’s also possibly a repeat of last week of Ben and Perrie with the camp stove. Louis isn’t exactly disappointed by this development. He really wants to be safe from elimination and he _really really_ wants to win.

 

Louis glances over the other way, and giggles inwardly at Sophia panting not very attractively as she tries to battle the stair-stepper. It looks intense and he is more glad than ever that he and Harry didn’t end up with that particular nightmare.

 

He finishes chopping the herbs and Harry folds them into the rice stuffing he’s constructing on the stove. Harry then hands him a whole bunch of potatoes and asks that he peel them. Louis makes a face. “Am I just here for slave labor then?” he asks imperiously.

 

Harry shoots him a smug look. “For your menial kitchen skills, darling, and for your glorious body.”

 

Louis puts down the peeler long enough to blow Harry a very dramatic kiss. He sees the camera catch the whole exchange and can’t help but think of the interview they gave this week and the edit they’re almost certainly going to get.

 

He can’t even say he’s the slightest bit surprised or disappointed.

 

He and Harry have spectacular chemistry together and it would be a horrible waste for the producers not to use it.

 

Harry finishes the stuffing and Louis watches in awe as he expertly and quickly butterflies the pork loin. Louis cuts lengths of kitchen twine as Harry carefully wraps the stuffing up in the loin. He ties it up and arranges it in a roasting pan, rubbing the surface with seasonings and some of the herbs that he also places in the pan, along with carrots, onions, potatoes, and the parsnips that Louis peeled and cut into large chunks. He drizzles in most of a bottle of white wine and some stock and then tents the entire pan with foil. The roast goes into the oven with only thirty seconds to spare, and Harry lets out a long sigh of relief when it’s in.

 

“I’m hungry already,” Louis says as they head back to wait out the three hour roasting time in their green room.  


“Hungry for what?” Harry asks with the most ridiculous waggling eyebrows. Louis giggles. He is so hopelessly endeared and hopelessly in love.

 

“This,” Louis whispers, pressing Harry up against their closing door as soon as they’re in the room. He kisses him with the kind of kiss they didn’t have time for when they arrived and had to almost immediately go film. The kiss says “hello,” and “I missed you,” and “I can’t believe you’re mine,” and “boyfriend,” and “I love you so much I can’t even see straight.”

 

Harry’s head tips back against the door, breaking the kiss. He’s smiling, a slow satisfied smile. “Hello to you, boyfriend,” he murmurs.

 

If Harry’s saying it, then Louis feels like he can say at least a part of what he’s thinking. “I missed you,” he admits softly, brushing his lips on the underside of Harry’s jaw, where Louis knows he’s so sensitive.

 

“Yeah,” Harry half-says, half-squeaks out. Louis can’t help a smug smile against Harry’s skin. “Same.”

 

Louis rises to his tip-toes and nibbles Harry’s earlobe. “You wanna go snog until we have to get back to filming?”

 

Harry doesn’t say a word, only sneaks his hands around Louis’ bum and lifts him up carrying him to the couch. He sets Louis down and is crawling all over him only an instant later, fusing his mouth to Louis’.

 

They kiss long and slow and sweet like they’ve got nowhere to be and all the time in the world. Louis buries his hands in Harry’s hair, caressing his scalp and Harry slots his legs in with Louis’. They fit together like puzzle pieces, like they were created for one another. Or at least that’s all Louis can think with his love-fuzzy brain.

 

“Everyone’s going to know what we were up to,” Harry murmurs into Louis’ mouth, even as he steals another handful of kisses.

 

“Let them talk,” Louis says with a light giggle. “They’re just jealous.”

 

“They should be,” Harry insists.

 

They kiss for long, drawn out minutes, flipping to the side, then moving Louis on top of Harry. He’s turned on, of course he is, Harry’s mouth is on his mouth, why wouldn’t he be? But it doesn’t feel like an imperative need, only a low buzz through his veins that he can satisfy whenever. Everything they’ve had to do so far has always felt a bit rushed, like if they didn’t do it _right then_ , they wouldn’t get a chance. Now, Louis feels like they have all the time they’ll ever need. He drifts off, laying his head down on Harry’s chest, and it’s the kind of feeling he never wants to end.

 

Unfortunately he jerks away about an hour later when there’s a loud knock on the door.

 

“Coming,” Louis barks out crossly. He’s sure it’s the PA, letting them know it’s time to go back to the set. But when he finally moves off Harry and stumbles to the door, it’s Niall standing there.

 

“What do you want?” he says, rubbing his eyes and trying to rearrange his fringe.

 

Niall just cackles as soon as he gets an eyeful of Harry lying stretched out on the couch. It is _very_ obvious they’ve just been sleeping together, all crammed on one tiny couch.

 

“Nialler,” Harry moans. “What are you doing here?”

 

“I was bored,” he admits, eating crisps out of the bag in his hand. “Should’ve guessed I’d be interrupting something.” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively and it’s nowhere as cute as when Harry did it only a few hours before.

 

 

“Niall, shut up,” Harry says tiredly. “Or I’m gonna strap you to that lazy susan prep table.”

 

“Oi!” Niall exclaims, leaning against wall, so casual it’s not like he’s just interrupted their little nap time—or whatever it was going to be. Louis hadn’t really expected anything to happen but now he’s disappointed _anyway_. “I should write to the Sun and tell them what you did to my office.”

 

Louis has the good sense to blush.

 

“What do you think we were going to do in it?” Harry asks lazily. “You said don’t do anything you wouldn’t, and well, while you might have not done _this exact thing_ , the point remains.”

 

Niall laughs and stuffs the rest of the crisps into his mouth. “You two are so perfect for each other.”

 

Louis blushes again.

 

“Anyway, you’ve got about ten minutes to try to look presentable again, so you’d better get to it.” Niall shoots them both a dubious look. “Make sure you use all the time.” And then he’s gone, just as fast as he arrived.

 

Louis heads over to the mirror and gloops on more hair product, trying to fix his fringe. It’s a mess, and his lips are swollen and pink. His eyes are sleepy and satisfied, even though there were no orgasms to be had. There should be a little more shame lingering in his expression, but he just looks happy.

 

Harry shuffles over to the mirror and after the ten minutes, they do look _better_. Still like they were doing what they were doing, but Louis decides he doesn’t care.

 

“Kitchen smells good,” Harry says as they descend the stairs to the set.

 

“What’s the plan for the last segment?” Louis asks belatedly. Maybe they should have spent more of their break talking strategy than making out and napping.

 

“Finish the vegetables, make some gravy, twiddle our thumbs,” Harry responds with a carefree grin. He seems _very_ confident, and he’s even more confident when they’re allowed back on the set and he checks the oven and their roast.

 

“Gorgeous,” he pronounces, whipping off the foil. “Now to let it brown a little bit.”

 

They carefully lift the vegetables out and Harry pronounces them perfect. Louis sneaks a bit of potato and moans a little at how good it tastes—the pork has imparted a distinctly meaty, herby flavor, and there’s also the richness from the wine that has cooked off. It’s really, _really_ delicious.

 

The roast itself comes out with fifteen minutes remaining, looking a burnished golden brown and absolutely gorgeous. Louis helps Harry drain the drippings into a pan and Harry whips up a quick sauce. When they carve the roast with only a minute or two to spare, Louis’ is holding his breath as the thick slices come out perfectly, the tender, juicy pork wrapped in the stuffing, the dried fruit studded in the rice like jewels.

 

A slice of the pork goes on each plate, Harry artistically draping it in sauce, and plating a small amount of the roasted vegetables next to it. Louis feels something between elation and terror as the clock clicks down and they’re finally done.

 

The judging starts with Niall Breslin and Sophia. They look even worse for the wear than he or Harry do, and Louis is surprised because Sophia _never_ looks anything less than flawless, then he remembers that they were doomed to climb the stair stepper of death.

 

They’ve prepared a pot roast with fennel and mashed potatoes. “Really flavorful gravy,” Nigella says and goes in for another bite. Louis can’t help but tense up.

 

“Really beautiful plate of food,” Geoffrey observes, “but I would have liked something green besides the chive garnish.”

 

Simon is silent, which Louis can’t decide is better or worse.

 

The judges move onto James and Paul, and Simon is the first to speak at the very small portion of meat he was given and the odd way it’s been prepared. “A roast is typically prepared as one large piece of meat,” Simon says skeptically, “but this is almost been cut into pieces and _then_ cooked. Which is not what I would expect from a roast.”

 

Louis has to hide his smug smile. Sophia doesn’t hide hers at all.

 

It’s obvious that Paul and James were forced into preparing the meat that way because of the very tiny flat cooking surface of the pan they were sabotaged with.

 

The sides are equally unremarkable. Nigella tries to give a compliment to the flavors, but it’s clear that unless anyone else’s dish is worse, things are not looking good for Paul and James.

 

Melissa and Niall are up next. Louis reaches out and grabs Harry’s hand. He knows the wonders Niall can create with meat. As it turns out, the judges all think that his pork roast is dry. The flavors are good, but even Nigella, as sweet as she is, plainly states she would have liked a sauce to at least give the impression the meat is more juicy than it is.

 

“Should’ve covered his roast,” Harry whispers self-righteously and Louis thinks he is certainly entitled to how smug he sounds. Last week, because of Niall, Harry had to prep on a constantly rotating table.

 

Zayn and Liam prepared an Indian-inspired roast. It’s a chicken, rubbed with curry and other spices, and it smells delicious, even from where Louis is standing. However, Geoffrey pokes around the plate and says, “I wish there were more sides to go with this dish. It feels a bit unfinished.”

 

Simon nods. “A sauce or gravy maybe. Something else besides the rice you’ve included.”

 

Harry and Louis’ turn is last, and Louis’ insides are curdling as Harry tells the judges about their dish. “A roasted pork loin,” he says, “stuffed with fruit and herb rice stuffing, with roasted vegetables and a pan sauce.”

 

Their dish looks more elegant than any other, and form the moment Nigella cuts into the pork and doesn’t even need the knife she’s been provided with, Louis feels _so_ good.

 

“This is delicious,” Nigella exclaims, and takes another bite, and then another. “I would love your recipe for this rice. It’s fabulous.”

 

Simon nods. “The perfect herbs,” he says. “Absolutely delicious.”

 

Geoffrey doesn’t comment, but considering he’s eaten have his plate by the time they step away, Louis can’t help but give a triumphant smile in Harry’s direction. They’ve done it; they’ve _finally_ won.

 

All that’s left to do is for Alton to confirm what he _knows_ is true.

 

First, there’s the expected announcement that James and Paul have been eliminated. James looks disappointed but not really surprised to hear their name called out as the pair that will be leaving next.

 

“A valiant effort, sirs,” Alton says kindly, shaking their hands, and Louis thinks he’s probably more right than truly kind. They did the best they could with what they had. He isn’t sure he or Harry could have gotten around that pan.

 

“As for our winners, well, it’s rather obvious, I think,” Alton says, shooting them a fond look. “Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson. Second place to Niall and Sophia. Third to Zayn and Liam.”

 

Louis always wondered what it would feel like to actually _win_. He feels like he’s spent his whole life coming second or third. As it turns out, he’s waited to win til the best possible time, because _nothing_ could possibly feel better than winning with Harry by his side. They feel like a team in the best sense of the word, and when Louis wraps his arms tightly around him, he tells him he loves him for the second time in two weeks, but this time he feels okay saying it a little louder.

 

Not loud enough that Harry might hear, mind you, but a little louder. And some day, hopefully someday soon, it’s going to be clear enough that Harry can hear it all.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I was going to post this last night but couldn't quite get past the shock to do so. but here it is! and I'm sure, sorely needed after the week we've all had. all fluff and no angst!
> 
> thank you to [Liz](http://cuethetommo.tumblr.com) for being a fantastic editor and fanfic spouse.
> 
> (funny aside: my now-husband proposed to me after we ate at Emeril's steakhouse in the Venetian in Las Vegas)

The interview with Harry and Louis airs Monday morning, and by Monday night, when Harry comes over to Louis’ flat for dinner and some snuggling, Louis has personally gained about 10,000 new followers and Harry’s follower count has tripled.

 

Louis is on the couch, attempting to sift through the massive pile of mentions he’s gotten after a day at the studio, when Harry walks in, carrying a bag of groceries. “Oi!” Louis exclaims as Harry sets the bag down on the kitchen counter and comes back into the living room to give Louis a kiss. “I _do_ have food, you know.”

 

Harry rolls his eyes, fondness radiating from every pore. “Snacks and cereal. I can’t make dinner out of pretzels and crisps, Peaches.”

 

Louis lifts his face and accepts the kiss Harry drops on his lips. “Hello to you, darling. Did you see that we’re famous now?”

 

“You were already famous,” Harry calls out as he heads back to the kitchen.

 

Louis mumbles something to himself about YouTube culinary demonstrations and a few recorded karaoke videos he’s dredged out of the abyss of the internet, but he doesn’t say it loud enough for Harry to hear. Even though Harry’s his boyfriend now, he doesn’t _ever_ have to know the depths Louis sunk to during the height of his desperation for new Harry material.

 

He hears Harry unloading bags in the kitchen, opening and closing the fridge, and then a startled gasp. “Louis! _Have you ever even_ _turned this oven on?”_

 

Louis has to think for a long moment. He’s a bit embarrassed at the answer. “No?” he calls out hesitantly.

 

“It’s okay, it’s just gonna get a bit of a workout today,” Harry answers back. Louis can hear the smile in his voice and a tiny sigh of relief escapes him.

 

He goes back to his twitter mentions and is beginning to discover that over and over again, he’s seeing this one phrase, this _name_ , repeated.

 

“Houis Tyles?” Louis ponders out loud as he scrunches his nose. It just sounds weird. Of course, when he and Harry are given a portmanteau, they end up with a shit one.

 

“What’s that babe?” Harry asks, coming into the living room as he wipes his hands on a towel.

 

“That’s apparently our couple name,” Louis says. He’s mystified and a bit annoyed. That’s the _best_ they could come up with? “And apparently we’re proper together. According to the fans, anyway.”

 

Harry leans over and brushes a kiss over Louis’ lips. “Well, we _are_ proper together.” He hesitates. “That name is really bad, you know.”

 

“Oh believe me, I know.”

 

Harry’s disgruntled expression morphs into this look of determination. The same one he wears when he’s trying to get Louis out of bed before ten in the morning.

 

“We can come up with something better than that,” he says.

 

Louis nods in agreement. “What about. . .Larry?” he suggests.

 

“I like it,” Harry says. “At least it’s better than Houis. What is that even, anyway? It’s not even a real name?”

 

“Awful, is what it is,” Louis pronounces. “Larry’s much better.”

 

“And last name?” Harry ponders. “Like. . .Styles plus Tomlinson. Stylinson?”

 

“Perfect!” Louis exclaims excitedly. “Larry Stylinson! It’s like they didn’t even try,” he scoffs.

 

“You gonna announce our new name, darling?” Harry asks. “I’ve got to get these pizzas in the oven.”

 

But Louis is already off in social media land, deep in concentration as he composes his tweet.

 

 **Love the excitement!** he writes, **I’m pumped to tackle Kitchen Wars with the greatest partner ever, @HarryStyles. #LarryStylinson4ever.**

 

By the time the pizzas are out of the oven and Louis is scrolling through Netflix looking for something good to watch as the food cools to a level that won’t scorch their mouths, Harry has time to glance at his phone.

 

“Louis,” he says very seriously as Louis mentally debates _The Avengers_ over the first episode of _Daredevil_ —Harry hasn’t seen either, and Louis feels it’s his civic duty to educate him--“Larry Stylinson is trending on Twitter.”

 

Louis drops the remote and picks up his phone, frantically scrolling to the twitter app. “It is?”

 

“Worldwide,” Harry says and he’s clearly in shock, because he must not be reading it right. Louis opens his app and is greeted by the exact same revelation. They have gone _global_.

 

It turns out, after some digging and Harry reheating their pizza twice, what’s actually happened is that Buzzfeed got ahold of the interview, a two minute preview of _Kitchen Wars_ in which apparently Louis and Harry feature prominently and then the tweets they’ve made to and from each other. They gathered it all together into one article titled, “The Cutest Reality Show Couple Ever.” Right now, it’s the most popular article on their site and has started to be picked up by many, many media outlets.

 

Then Louis tweeted—and apparently, from what Louis can figure out from the tidal wave of info he’s trying to wade through, to many people, Louis’ tweet was a confirmation of all the speculation that Buzzfeed spent the day generating.

 

Harry’s head falls back on the couch. “I don’t understand,” he says.

 

Louis’ phone rings out shrilly. It’s Alberto. Of course it’s Alberto. Louis debates quickly the pros and cons of putting his manager off while he and Harry try to salvage what’s left of their quiet night in.

 

Harry’s face is resigned as he glances over at the buzzing device on the coffee table. “You know he won’t stop calling if you don’t answer,” he points out.

 

“I know, I know,” Louis grumbles. But still his finger hesitates over the answer button. It’s exciting to become this popular this quickly and it will certainly help both of their public profiles and it will absolutely contribute to the success of _Kitchen Wars_ , but it’s almost too much too fast. It’s a little terrifying, if he’s being honest.

 

And of all the good reasons, that’s almost certainly why he picks up Alberto’s call right before it goes to voicemail.

 

The first thing Alberto says when Louis picks up is, “Harry needs a manager,” and the conversation goes downhill from there.

 

Thirty minutes and another pizza reheating later, Louis and Harry are finally off of the call with Alberto and are debating whether it’s a good idea for Harry to also become Alberto’s client.

 

“I think there are a lot of positives,” Harry says between big bites of pizza. “Like he can work together on our PR. I can’t imagine there would be much I’d want to really do separately, PR wise, from you.”

 

Louis just shakes his head. Harry’s so smart, and a wonderful cook, but he’s so naïve. “You’re amazing, Bananas,” he says softly, “you can’t even imagine how many people are going to come knocking on your door. And most of it won’t have anything to do with me.”

 

“I just want to open my bakery,” Harry keeps insisting. Louis’ cracks open a beer and chugs down half before calling Alberto back.

 

“Harry works tomorrow afternoon,” Louis explains to Alberto. “Come to my place and we’ll talk contracts before he goes. Bring bagels.”

 

Alberto makes a grunt of assent.

 

“I want to state for the record that I wanted him to seriously consider different representation. At least _looking_ at different options,” Louis says, shooting Harry an arch look. Harry just smiles, because he really doesn’t know what is going to happen shortly, but Louis does. Louis knows what it feels like when suddenly everyone wants you. He also knows what it feels like when everyone forgets you. The trick is trying to keep your balance somewhere in the middle.

 

Even after four years in the entertainment industry, Louis is still trying to figure out that trick.

 

“I think that you’ll be more than paranoid enough for both of us,” Alberto says with a chuckle. “He’ll be fine. I promise. I’ll take good care of him.”

 

They make the final arrangements, and Louis hangs up, grabbing another piece of pizza to avoid looking at Harry. He’s never done that before. Not once since he’s met him. Usually he can’t look away.

 

“Peaches,” Harry says softly, scooting closer on the couch until their thighs are touching and Harry is cuddling into his side, “Alberto will take good care of me. You trust him to take care of you?”

 

Louis doesn’t know exactly how to say this--or if he should even say it at all--but it’s one thing to make sure he has a manager who takes care of _him_. But Harry? Harry deserves more than that. Harry deserves the very best he could possibly find. End of story.

 

“I do,” Louis confirms after he chews and swallows. If the bite has trouble doing down, only he has to know about it. “Of course I do. He cares more than anyone else has before. But if we’re both his clients, he might . . .” Louis clears his throat. The lump won’t go away. It’s definitely not pizza. “I’m worried he might try to use our relationship as PR.”

 

“Well of course he’s going to do that,” Harry says, rolling his eyes a bit, his grin lopsided. “We’re _together_. Isn’t that what celebrities do when they’re together?”

 

“Not always,” Louis says. He can’t seem to shake the worry in his bones. Maybe it’s all those years of bearding he had to endure before he came out—stupid stunts that were fake facsimiles of a real relationship. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if their relationship, which is one hundred percent real, had a little light shown on it.

 

“What if we made sure to write boundaries into my contract? It wouldn’t be in yours, but it would be in mine, and as long as we were together, nobody could force us to do anything.”

 

That isn’t a half-bad idea. Harry is so smart. Louis wishes he was as smart as Harry. Of course, it’s hard to be smart when he’s too busy panicking over the whole situation. “Actually,” he admits. “I have a clause in my contract that says I get autonomy over who I date, both publicly and privately.”

 

He doesn’t have to even say why, empathy for what Louis has been through is still brewing in Harry’s eyes. Louis reaches around Harry’s shoulders and squeezes him tightly. “I think it’ll be okay. Alberto _is_ a good guy, as managers go. I was lucky to get him, honestly, and you’ll be lucky too.”

 

Harry looks so trusting as he stares back at Louis. Louis also wants to believe his expression also could qualify as loving—and as a hypothesis, it’s not so crazy, actually. “Would you mind if we wrote out a few things I want to make sure are priorities when we discuss the contract?” Harry asks.

 

“Of course!”

 

Louis finds a copy of his contract on his laptop and they go over it until late, all thought of Netflix forgotten, writing down ideas of clauses that Harry feels are important to him.

 

It becomes very clear that Harry, while not being particularly creative in his search for a manager, is not going to be the type of client who simply lets things happen to him. The final list of requirements is not lengthy, but it is firm. Harry is going to open his bakery. He wants to prioritize his PR commitments around the bakery and its opening in the near future. Everything has to come back to his business. He is not in this for personal glory. There is a point about relationships. Harry wants to see all the offers that Alberto gets. He wants to make his own choices, with advice from Alberto. He is willing to let Alberto manage him, but not _manage_ him. The distinction is so important and Louis is relieved that Harry never had to learn the hard way how horrible it can be when someone else has complete control over your life.

 

By the time they fall in bed, Louis’ concern is almost entirely dissipated and as they cuddle together under the covers, he thinks he’s never been happier.

 

He always thought it was bullshit when well-meaning people insisted that going through tough times gave you perspective for the good ones, but he’s surprised to find that this horrible cliché is actually rather true.

 

\-----

 

They wake up to ringing phones. Louis ignores his (it’s Alberto) in favor of listening as Harry answers his. It’s the bakery, they are apparently inundated with crowds this morning, all clamoring for Harry.

 

Harry hangs up, still trying to process as he wipes the sleep from his eyes. “I guess I missed the part where the Buzzfeed article listed my place of work,” he gripes. “They want me to come in and just make an appearance I guess, stroll behind the counter and look important while they sell out of every pastry in the case.”

 

Louis shrugs. He isn’t all that surprised.

 

He is surprised a second later to hear banging on the door. Throwing on a t-shirt and joggers, he pads to the door to find Alberto there, looking rather wild-eyed.

 

“My god Louis,” Alberto spits out when he’s finally let in. “You need to answer your fucking phone.”

 

Louis looks at him dumbfounded. “It’s two hours before you were supposed to be here,” he points out.

 

“There is a mob of paps around your complex,” Alberto explains in a huff. “And I already got a call from the bakery. I guess it’s a madhouse down there.”

 

“Harry just talked to them,” Louis explains slowly as Alberto takes his laptop of out his bag and sets up on the kitchen counter. “They want him to come in, I guess and properly pimp their pastries.”

 

“He’s not going anywhere,” Alberto said with an edge of pure satisfaction in his voice. “In fact, I think it’s safe to say he’s not going there again.”

 

“What?” Louis squawks. “What did you do?”  


“I acted in his best interests,” Alberto says patiently. “He doesn’t need to be working for other people right now, he needs to be working for himself.”

 

“That _is_ the plan,” Harry says, walking into the kitchen. He’s wearing joggers too, but he’s not wearing a shirt and Louis wants to plaster himself to his front, even with Alberto here. “Eventually.”

 

Louis crosses his arms over his chest. “This isn’t eventually,” he points out.

 

“What’s going on?” Harry asks, glancing from Louis’ aggressive pose to Alberto, who looks like he’s trying to keep a lid on his own temper.

 

“I spoke to the bakery this morning,” Alberto says carefully. “I broached the idea that it’s not in your best business interests to bake every day for them right now. Appearances, maybe, but you have a lot of important things to get lined up to start your own bakery and working there isn’t going to help you right now.”

 

Harry looks like he’s trying to process this. Frankly, it’s a fucking shit ton to process, and Louis is impressed that Harry’s doing as well as he is.

 

“So, you want me to quit.”

 

Louis wants to applaud because at Harry’s words, a look of pure disgruntlement passes over Alberto’s face, like he just came to the realization that Harry will be just as much of a pain in the arse as Louis is. Louis’s look says, _did you really think I’d fall for him otherwise?_

 

“Not quit,” Alberto coaxes. “I want you to not do the grunt work. Maybe make some appearances. Sign some autographs. Sell some pastries. Give some interviews that boost your old bakery’s sales as well as help promote the new bakery. _Your_ bakery.”

 

Louis is impressed despite himself. Occasionally he’ll have these blinding realizations of just how smart and manipulative Alberto is, and honestly, those moments only make him love his manager more.

 

There’s a furrow in Harry’s brow and he seems to be considering what Alberto is proposing very seriously. As he should. These first few steps almost always seem to dictate and set a precedent for everything to come. Harry needs to think about himself, first and foremost, while not alienating anyone who’s helped him get where he is today. It’s yet another balancing act, and it’s one that Louis struggled with.

 

“If I agree to this,” Harry points out, “I absolutely want to make certain that I do make those appearances and use this sudden popularity to help _them_ as well as me. I won’t shit on them. They gave me a job right out of culinary school and I wouldn’t be on _Kitchen Wars_ if I wasn’t allowed to creatively express myself in the kitchen there.”

 

“Of course, of course,” Alberto promises rapidly. “We’ll arrange them today, if you want.”

 

“What about today?” Harry asks. “They called me. They want me to come in early.”

 

“Today, unfortunately, isn’t going to work. I’ve got some investors that I want you to meet with.”

 

The furrow deepens. “I don’t want to answer to anyone,” he says stubbornly. “I want this bakery to be mine.”

 

“And it will be yours,” Alberto reassures. “I just want you to meet with them. You could use some startup capital that isn’t tied to the show, and they all have an excellent business track record. I think you could use their advice, at the very least.”

 

Harry leans back against the counter. His face has relaxed and so have his limbs. This feels more like the comfortable negotiation that Louis was expecting when he woke up this morning.

 

“London’s not cheap, particularly the spaces I have my eye on,” Harry hedges. “The startup capital wouldn’t be unwelcome.”

 

“Even better.” Alberto turns his laptop screen towards Harry. “I’ve drawn up a sample contract .  . .”

 

“No need,” Harry interrupts before he can even finish. He sets the paper they drew up last night together on the counter and slides it over. “I already know the kind of conditions I want.”

 

Alberto’s glance at Louis is approving. His look and the last ten minutes have gone a long way to reassuring Louis that Harry is making an informed and intelligent decision. He isn’t going to let Alberto walk all over him, but he will  take advantage of Alberto’s  years in the business.

 

Alberto and Louis have been a dynamite combination. Louis is beginning to see that Alberto and Harry could deliver the same sort of results.

 

Harry and Alberto talk over the list, but it’s all essentially done. Alberto doesn’t want to take things that clients don’t need to give and that’s one of the main reasons Louis was so relieved when they agreed to work together. He’d had too many years of managers demanding and then just _taking_.

 

Louis eats a bowl of cereal and takes a shower and when he’s done, the contract is printing and Alberto looks up at Louis next. Harry goes to take a shower and Louis and his manager are left alone in the kitchen.

 

“I want you to go outside,” Alberto says and Louis, despite all the positive thoughts he’s had about Alberto today, shakes his head vehemently.

 

“No way. I’m not going out into that mob.”

 

“You’ll be fine. I’ll call some security. All you have to do is stand there and let them take some pictures. Maybe some video. Let them see you. Talk about going to the studio.”

 

“Aren’t I going to the studio? What about Julian?”

 

“I texted Julian yesterday. You’re not going anywhere.”

 

“What? So I’ll take a taxi around the block?” Louis scoffs at this. He hates, _hates_ , the fabrications that he participates in, even though the ones he agrees to now are less over the top and far less harmful than the ones he used to be forced into.

 

“Louis,” Alberto says patiently.  


“I know, I know, I need to be seen. For the articles.” It’s hard, but Louis barely holds back a sneer. PR will never be his favorite part of this business.

 

“Yesterday was fantastic. Better than I ever could have hoped for. But it’s not a trend. It’s a single day. We need to keep this going.”

 

“Right. Into the premiere, then into the finale, if we make it, and then into album promo and then album release.” Louis pauses, glances over at Alberto, who is wearing that proud expression again. Louis is annoyed. “Did I get it right?”

 

“You know you got it right, you twat,” Alberto says with a fond chuckle. “But you’re still going outside. No matter how many circles you run around me.”

 

“Fine,” Louis grumbles. “Do I have to change?”

 

Alberto looks at his joggers and ripped t-shirt. He sighs. “Yes.”

 

\---

 

“I certainly hope your day was better than mine, Bananas. I got papped by a mob, drove around the block in a taxi, and then spent the day going stir crazy at home and wishing I could be at the studio with Julian.” Louis sighs as they rearrange themselves back on the couch. Tonight it’s Chinese, not pizza, and so far there’s been no re-heating. They’ve silenced their phones and are actually ambitious enough to declare they want to have the quiet night in they didn’t get yesterday.

 

Harry sighs too. “It was good. It was productive, anyway. I liked the people I met with. They’re smart and clever and know how to sell things.”

 

“But?” Louis asks.

 

“But it feels like giving in, to just accept their money and let them own a piece of the business,” Harry admits. “It feels weak. It feels like I never even gave it a proper shot.”

 

Louis is quiet for a moment as he opens his carton of fried rice. “I don’t like accepting help either,” he finally admits.

 

“But?” Harry parrots back with a smile.

 

“But some things, they’re better if you’re not on your own.” Louis swallows and wonders if now is the time Harry finds out his story. Maybe now is better than later. Maybe Harry can learn from it.

 

“I’ve made some really dumb decisions career-wise,” Louis continues. “Like _against all good advice from people who knew better than me_ decisions. When I came out? I was told it was better to wait. Like there were better times to do it, better ways, but I thought with my heart and not my head.” He pauses. “I think what I’ve learned the most from four years in the entertainment business is balance. Life and career. What I want versus what I need.”

 

“That. . .” Harry says softy, “that is amazing advice. It helps more than you know.”

 

Harry is gazing at him like he’s just solved world peace. Or like something else. Louis refuses to speculate.

 

Instead of speaking, Louis just buries his face into the crook of Harry’s neck. The words are threatening to surface and this is absolutely the wrong time for them to escape.

 

“Wanna watch a movie?” Harry asks tenderly. “Netflix and chill, Peaches?”

 

Louis lifts his head and shoots Harry a smile. “My favorite kind of evening. No clothing changes required.”

 

Harry’s smirk is filthy. “No clothes required _period_.”

 

\---

 

It’s two days later when Louis finds it. He’s on the couch again, except this time it’s Harry’s couch. Harry’s in the kitchen recipe testing for the business plan that he’s putting together for the investors who are all dying to give him an insane amount of startup money.

 

Louis hasn’t been to the studio since the day of the interview, and he’s so antsy and bored he feels like he might scream. He’s done some work with Julian over skype but it’s not the same, it doesn’t feel the same as the studio and they weren’t as productive as he would’ve liked. Now he’s stuck on the couch, scrolling through his twitter feed again, trying to catch up on the rest of the social media avalanche from two days ago.

 

He doesn’t even mean to click on it. It’s honestly a bit of an accident. His thumb was scrolling and then all of a sudden a link is loading on his phone. He goes to close it without even looking at it—no doubt it’s an ad or maybe even the hundred thousandth link to the Buzzfeed article featuring him and Harry. But he pauses, because it’s a site he has a vague knowledge of from back when he was on _The X-Factor_ and the social media manager told all the contestants they were never allowed to mention it or tweet about it or even _breathe_ links from it.

 

He knows it’s a site where people post fanfiction. He has only the most rudimentary idea what fanfiction is, he’s never read one in his life, so he’s completely floored when the link finishes loading and he realizes he’s staring at a fanfiction featuring _Larry Stylinson._

 

AKA Harry and Louis.

 

AKA himself.

 

Louis drops his phone to the couch cushion like he’s been burned. He tells himself when he picks it back up he will immediately close the link and keep scrolling through his twitter feed. He doesn’t have any interest in what people might write, _fictionally_ , about him and Harry.

 

Except of course, when he picks his phone up, he does nothing of the sort. He’ll just read the description, he thinks. He just wants to know _what_ people would write about him and Harry. That’s all.

 

Except the description makes his heart beat faster and his palms sweat.

 

 _Louis and Harry finally take their relationship to the next level_ , he reads _, when they meet late one night in the_ Kitchen Wars _kitchens_.

 

His skin prickles. He thinks he understands what the author is trying to say without being a total slag about it. And he’s curious, okay? He’s never read what someone else thinks of him having sex. Add in the kryptonite component of Harry and there’s no way he can resist at least checking out the story.

 

So he quickly, guiltily, glances up to make sure that Harry hasn’t decided to interrupt him, and when he verifies the coast is clear, starts to read.

 

The opening premise is _terrible_. It completely ignores things like common sense, the way that _Kitchen Wars— or_ really any other reality TV show for that matter—films, and there are various other inaccuracies that at first make him want to stop and just close the window. He gave it a shot, but maybe fanfiction just isn’t for him.

 

Then suddenly, something abruptly changes. In the story, he and Harry are currently in the filming kitchens, and the lights are dim and they’re flirting and suddenly Louis can’t tear his eyes away from the screen. He’s not even sure he’s blinking.

 

_“You know how much I like you, Lou,” Harry says, swaying closer. “You’re gorgeous.”_

 

_“No, I don’t,” Louis teases. “Maybe you’d better tell me.”_

 

_“Tell you?” Harry raises a questioning eyebrow._

 

 _“Okay._ Show _me.” And Louis’ words aren’t just a challenge, they’re practically a dare. The good news is that Harry looks like he’s absolutely game to play. He leans forward, the tip of his tongue slipping past his pillowy lips to wet them. Louis stares at that tiny damp patch, nearly mesmerized by it._

 

Of course, this is the moment that Real Harry decides it’s a good time to interrupt. “Hey Louis!” he shouts from the kitchen. “Come ‘ere a sec?”

 

Louis blinks once then twice, looking up from his phone like he’s emerging from underwater. He’s been so absorbed in the story that it’s tough to even focus on what Harry’s saying. Then he repeats it and Louis mentally groans. He was just getting to the good part!

 

But he also loves Harry and wants to support him, so he drags his ass off the couch, glances down at his crotch and hopes his semi is mostly hidden by the loose joggers he’s wearing.

 

Does this mean that he and Harry aren’t having enough sex? When a fanfiction turns him on? Louis isn’t sure he wants to know the answers to those questions.

 

When Louis enters the kitchen, Harry’s frowning over something he’s just pulled out of the oven. A pastry, burnished a beautiful golden brown, and smelling delicious.

 

“What is it, babe?” Louis asks, hovering behind a bar stool with the hope what the joggers don’t hide, the seat will.

 

Harry looks up, a frown furrowing his brow. “Testing out some lunch recipes,” he says. “Need an objective taste tester. I feel like it’s a missing a million things. Or maybe I’m just being too critical.”

 

“Okay, yeah, sure. I mean it smells so good.” Louis is still hovering behind the bar stool and thinking of everything he can that might flag his erection, but the teasing purpose of those words in the story won’t leave him. It feels like they’re pulsing through his veins.

 

Harry glances up, frown deepening. “Are you okay, Lou? You look flushed.”

 

Louis _feels_ hot so this isn’t much of a surprise. He tends to turn pink when he gets turned on as much as he is right now.

 

Unfortunately, when he gets this horny, he also loses his brain to mouth filter completely.

 

“Have you ever read fanfiction?” he confesses before he can stop himself.

 

The edge of Harry’s mouth quirks up. “I know what it is, yeah. Never read one though.”

 

“I hadn’t either,” Louis says even though his common sense is screaming at him to shut the fuck up, “until just now.” He licks his dry lips. “It was about us.”

 

Harry seems to miss the importance of what Louis is telling him, turning back to the pastry and poking at it absently. “That was quick.”

 

“I mean, someone is writing about _us_ ,” Louis tries to say without actually admitting he was reading a story someone else wrote about the two of them fucking.

 

Harry glances back up. “You don’t mean?” He also seems loathe to put the idea into words.

 

Louis nods emphatically. “I mean, I hadn’t finished it yet so no idea how . . .”

 

Harry just interrupts him. “You were reading it just now?”

 

Louis knows he should feel more ashamed than excited. But it’s the truth. He’s grown even harder in the last minute, and he can feel precome leaking into the soft cotton of his joggers. He shifts a little and tries to ignore how good it feels and how interested Harry suddenly looks when he nods that _yes_ , he was just reading it.

 

Harry walks around the island and gets an eyeful of Louis’ dick. His fists clench, making the muscles flex in his biceps and Louis begins to sweat—but for some frustrating reason, Harry leans back against the opposite counter and seems perfectly fine just staring at Louis like he wants to eat him up. But he doesn’t _move_.

 

“Tell me more about the story,” Harry says instead.

 

“Um, well, it’s kinda . . .” Louis rambles.

 

“How about this. Read it to me,” Harry says and his voice isn’t asking, it’s _telling_. And _wow_ , if that isn’t the hottest thing Louis has ever heard.

 

With trembling fingers, Louis opens up the story again and makes the executive decision to skip the unnecessary parts at the beginning. He’s pretty sure Harry wants to hear the same thing he does—how someone else thinks they fuck.

 

His voice is high and airy as he gets through the flirting section he’s already read. It’s not the greatest piece of literature, but the palpable chemistry that he and Harry have had since the first day is there and Louis is having to grip the edge of the counter by the time he finally reaches what he’s been waiting for.

 

_Harry pushes Louis up against the prep station and kisses him, hard and soft and overwhelming. Their lips move together and it’s slick and hot when their tongues meet._

 

Louis isn’t sure he would normally find reading about kissing all that hot, but when it’s him and Harry and he _knows_ , is so fucking intimately familiar with how they kiss in real life and how mind-blowingly amazing it is each and every time—well, just the kissing has him stumbling over the words he’s reading.

 

He pauses to try to collect his breath and his thoughts.

 

“How do you think they do it?” Harry rasps out, his voice lower than Louis can ever remember hearing it. His gaze is dark and intense and Louis wonders how much further he’ll even have to read before Harry loses it and fucks him in this kitchen.

 

“I . . .I . . .I could keep reading and find out?” Louis stutters.

 

Harry doesn’t answer, just gives Louis a sharp nod. So he continues, even though each word feels like both a blessing and a curse.

 

_Harry’s big hands are coasting over Louis’ curves, drifting downwards until they curve against his bum. Louis jerks back into them, grinding helplessly against Harry’s thigh between his legs. Harry’s hard cock catches’ Louis’ and they gasp into each other’s mouths._

 

_“Wanna blow you,” Louis pants out. “Want you in my mouth. Want to taste you everywhere.”_

 

Louis swallows so hard that he’s sure that Harry can hear it perfectly on the other side of the kitchen. He glances up from his phone and Harry’s eyes are burning into him.

 

He doesn’t think he can take anymore, so he grips the phone and repeats the last line he just read but he looks up at Harry with undeniable purpose as he says it.

 

Harry drags a hand through his hair and just _groans_. “Then get over here, babe,” he grunts out.

 

Louis drops the phone to the counter, doesn’t even register if it stays in piece. He’s across the kitchen in two strides and presses Harry back up against the counter, kissing him like he’s starving for it. And he _is_. It was torture to read about fictional Harry and Louis and not be able to experience it in real time.

 

Louis licks deep into Harry’s mouth, fingers weaving through his curls, and angling him so he can get even deeper. It’s a filthy kiss, wet and sloppy almost, but so hot that Louis is whimpering in what feels like moments. They’re both so into it, Louis thinks he could almost just rub his cock a little against Harry’s and keep kissing him this way and he’d come easy, no problem at all. But something, maybe that huge store of love he’s been building for Harry, drives him further, drives him to his knees.

 

He wants to make his boy feel good. Wants to make him feel _the best_.

 

Easing down Harry’s zipper, Louis then tugs down Harry’s jeans, careful not to pull too much on Harry’s dick, which is just about as hard as Louis’ by this point.

 

Clearly Harry was just as affected by the fanfiction as Louis was. Maybe fanfiction is something they should start working into their sex life on a more regular basis.

 

Louis pulls down Harry’s pants and his deliciously big cock springs free, hard and red and wet at the tip. He licks his lips, then drags just the tip of his tongue up the underside, reveling in the taste of Harry.

 

“Peaches,” Harry says, his voice gritty and dark, “don’t tease.”

 

Louis has got Harry’s cock at his mercy so he just teases a second longer, to remind Harry that he doesn’t get to call all the shots, then he wraps his mouth around the head and sucks _hard_.

 

“Oh fuck,” Harry moans, and Louis swallows the blurt of precome that lands on his tongue. He takes Harry all the way down then, relaxing his tongue and his throat, so turned on that it doesn’t even feel the tiniest bit difficult to fight his gag reflex. Harry’s the biggest guy he’s ever blown and as much as he loves the heft and weight in his mouth and in his arse, it isn’t always easy.

 

But tonight, with arousal spiking through him like electricity, it’s something more than easy to just relax into it and make his boy feel good.

 

“Fuck,” Harry whines. “Your fucking mouth.”

 

Louis wiggles with pleasure at the praise, his mouth too full to even moan really.

 

“Baby,” Harry says, “take off your pants. Want you to touch yourself. Both hands. Use only your mouth on me.”

 

Louis pulls off a little and moans at that. He’s so horny he feels beyond words. He’s just a vessel for pleasure—giving and hopefully receiving.

 

He strips off his joggers and groans when he finally gets to wrap a hand around himself. He’s so wet and hard, he keeps his fist loose, not wanting to come before Harry does. He’s just about to sink back down on Harry’s cock when Harry’s hands stop him, cradling his face as they force him to pause.

 

“I said both hands, baby,” Harry insists. “Wet your fingers for me.”

 

Louis slides his fingers into his loose mouth, wetting them and pushing more against his gag reflex as he takes them deep. The discomfort only seems to whet the edge of his arousal, and he pants as he pulls them out and slips his hand around his arse to his hole.

 

“That’s it baby,” Harry purrs, releasing his hold on Louis and letting him fill his mouth up again.

 

It’s not easy to make it amazing for Harry and pay attention to his own pleasure. Louis gets himself right to the edge with teasing touches on his dick, dipping his fingers past his rim with the other hand, and then keeps himself there.

 

Harry gets there quickly too, tangling his hands in Louis’ hair as he fills himself up over and over again with Harry’s dick, fluttering his tongue around the head and the sensitive vein on the underside.

 

“Gonna come,” Harry warns with a deep moan. Louis can taste his orgasm starting, come spurting in hot loads into his mouth, and he just grips his own dick a little harder and pushes his wet thumb past his sensitive rim. He comes just as Harry’s coming down, seizing around his fingers and pumping come on the kitchen floor.

 

Breathless, Louis slips Harry’s softening dick out of his mouth and tries not to slump boneless into the puddle of come that he’s just created on the floor.

 

“God,” Harry says reverently. “That was _hot_.”

 

Louis leans against Harry’s leg and smiles. “I wonder if there’s more fanfiction about us?” he wonders with a scratchy voice.

 

\---

 

 

“What do you think our theme will be this week?” Louis asks Harry as they head down from their green room to the main filming kitchen.

 

He does genuinely want to know Harry’s thoughts, but he’s also trying to distract himself from remembering that fanfiction in too much detail when he sees the set for the first time.

 

Harry starts rambling about possibilities and it turns out that the distraction isn’t quite enough because Louis still squirms inwardly when he sees their station, and the metal table Harry leaned against in the story as Louis blew him.

 

Harry must realize because at some point, he just stops and glances down at Louis, a smile quirking up the corner of his lips. “Okay, peaches?” he asks knowingly. “You seem a bit distracted.”

 

There are only four teams left. Louis can’t afford to be distracted. As much as his mind wants to play around in the story he read and to indulge in all sorts of other related fantasies, he can’t. Not now.

 

There are three more weeks of competition. He’s got to focus for _three_ more weeks. Surely he can do that.

 

“I’m good,” Louis reassures Harry, reaching down to squeeze his hand. Offer that little bit of extra certainty. If he’s reassuring himself as well as Harry, nobody needs to know.

 

Filming starts, and when a short rotund man with a receding hairline comes out next to Alton, he hears Harry’s sharp, sudden intake of breath.

 

“Yes, yes, we have culinary royalty standing before us today,” Alton says. “Emeril Lagasse is here to help judge our last four pairs.”

 

Louis only knows that Emeril is a famous chef and has his face on products at big stores, but he doesn’t really look that intimidating.

 

“Of course, I see that all our chefs are _very_ aware of Emeril’s talent, but maybe our celebrities could use a refresher course. Emeril brought Cajun food, garlic and butter to the masses. He is the executive chef and owner of many excellent restaurants. And is possibly most famous for his lovely preparations of _seafood_.” Alton pauses for dramatic effect. “Yes, seafood is your theme of the week. But before you can shop and prepare a delicious dish for our judges, a little pre-shop auction, perhaps?”

 

Louis shifts nervously from foot to foot. He doesn’t like the sound of this at all. He glances up at Harry, who is still staring at awe at Emeril.

 

Alton whips a white cloth off one of their regular shopping baskets. “Let’s start the bidding for this item at five hundred pounds. What for? Well, for the privilege of relieving one of your opponents of the opportunity to _use_ one when they go shopping.”

 

Ugh, this is going to suck. But Louis does not feel even the slightest need to bid on this. He’s pretty sure they’re going to get it regardless, because after their triumphant win last week and considering the interview and he and Harry’s sudden meme-like status, he would absolutely do the same if their roles were reversed.

 

But then Louis looks down at Harry’s big hands, remembers how capable they are, and figures that he can absolutely handle it.

 

The bidding is quick and Louis isn’t surprised in the slightest when Niall and Melissa spend only two thousand pounds to confiscate their shopping basket. Honestly, Louis would have thought less of Niall if he hadn’t spent the money to take it away.

 

Harry just gives Louis a lopsided, painfully adorable shrug when the basket disappears. They talked about this, knew they would almost certainly be sabotaged this week. They’ll be lucky if they don’t get the second sabotage too.

 

He doesn’t have to, but Louis gives Harry a last reassuring squeeze before Harry rushes off the pantry to load up his hands with as much food as he can.

 

Louis usually doesn’t pay much attention to the shopping because it’s so short and usually hectic. But this time, he strains to watch Harry through the glass doors of the pantry. When Harry comes out, his arms loaded with ingredients and a calm smile on his face, Louis is so proud.

 

They rock. They can’t even be sabotaged. Louis shoots a quick triumphant look to Niall who just rolls his eyes as Harry deposits their load onto their prep station.

 

“Our second sabotage,” Alton announces, brandishing what looks like a weapon from his pocket. “My favorite of the day, actually. This is a box cutter. Whoever wins this challenge can remove all the sharp implements from the team of their choice and force them to use this knife-like item instead.”

 

Harry makes a face to indicate just how he feels about losing his knives. Suddenly Louis really hopes that this doesn’t go to them.

 

The bidding quickly gets started, with Liam and Zayn opening with two thousand pounds. They clearly want to win this. They get into an intense bidding war with Niall, with Louis popping in a bid every once in awhile, just to drive the price up. If Harry is going to be stuck with this “knife-like item,” then he sure as hell wants whoever buys it to pay way too much for it.

 

Niall drops out at six thousand five hundred pounds. Sophia, who’s been quiet til now, raises Zayn and Liam to six thousand seven. They counter with seven thousand pounds and it’s over.

 

Seven thousand pounds. Louis can’t believe they just spent so much money. That’s the most expensive sabotage that anyone has bought yet. Louis just prays that Liam and Zayn have short term memories and don’t remember that Louis once forced them to make all their cooking utensils and pans from aluminum foil.

 

Zayn pauses dramatically, knife cutter in hand, in front of Louis and Harry. He’s got a twinkle in his eye though, and Louis lets out a rather large sigh of relief as he changes course at the last moment and hands it to Niall Breslin and Sophia instead.

 

_Thank god._

 

“Normally,” Alton says next, and god, Louis wishes he would _just stop talking_ , “you’d start cooking now. But I’ve got one more surprise.”

 

“We’re going to have a little trivia contest, “Alton continues, as pencils are distributed to the chefs, but not the celebrities. “To prove how well you’ve gotten to know your celebrity. Whoever answers the most questions correctly will not only receive a large stock pot, exclusive to their use, but also a fresh Maine lobster. Succulent and delicious, I assure you.”

 

Harry perks up at this and Louis can’t help but giggle under his breath. Is there any person on earth that doesn’t think they have this in the bag?

 

Niall clearly does because he calls out, “this is totally unfair, I’ll have you know.”

 

Alton just laughs maniacally. “There is no fair!” he pronounces. “There is only the war!”

 

Louis hears Niall continue to grumble as the celebrities are ushered out of the room. He isn’t happy that he won’t get to watch Harry answer questions about him _or_ see him own everyone’s arses. But he’s very _very_ confident that the latter is going to happen. I mean they’re _together_ , and while according to Harry, Niall has been continually trying to get into Melissa’s bikini bottoms, he has yet to be successful.

 

Louis glances over Melissa, who is clearly fretting over the sudden challenge, and feels like maybe it wouldn’t hurt to pretend that they’re not competitors.

 

“It’ll be fine,” Louis promises as he sits down next to her. “Niall’s smart.”

 

Melissa gives him a rueful look. “I don’t think it’s going to matter how smart he is,” she retorts.

 

That _is_ true.

 

Louis tries again, because you never know when you might need an Olympic athlete on your side.’

 

 

“You know, I hear a lot of things about you and Niall,” Louis offers with an eyebrow waggle.

 

She laughs, and he can see some of the tension melt off her face, and he takes that as a solid win. Niall should be grateful because he definitely doesn’t deserve Louis comforting his partner after that whole lazy susan prep table fiasco.

 

“Certainly not as much as I hear about you and Harry,” Melissa offers back.

 

Louis blushes. “He’s wonderful.”

 

Melissa has the nerve to look very smug. “I figured as much.”

 

“Everybody knows, don’t they?” Louis asks, not even the tiniest bit upset by this.

 

“Everybody knows,” she says seriously with a little nod of confirmation.

 

He makes a face and she laughs again.

 

Niall really owes Louis now, but it’s still very pleasant to chat with Melissa for the next few minutes. She’s funny and clever and Louis decides that if Niall is a lucky man, then maybe he’ll eventually be successful in winning her over.

 

When they walk back onto the soundstage, Harry’s triumphant smile tells Louis everything he needs to know. He won (big surprise) and he won big.

 

As it turns out, Harry has won both the lobster _and_ the big pot, which might explain why both the Nialls and Liam are all shooting daggers their direction.

 

Alton starts the cooking time with a flourish and off they go again. Except this time, Louis feels relaxed and prepared. Like they’ve got this and nothing can shake their confidence.

 

“What happened?” he asks Harry as he gets the large pot onto boil.

 

“The questions were so easy,” Harry says softly, like he’s afraid Alton will hear them and suddenly decide to make their lives harder for the next hour.

 

“What did they ask about?” Louis wonders as he paws through the groceries Harry carried back to their station. He’s got shrimp and lots of garlic, pasta, herbs, cherry tomatoes, lemon, and some parmesan cheese. “Scampi?”

 

Harry nods. “The lobster will really bump up the volume I think. I stuck with simple in the pantry because I had to carry it all, but the lobster take this to a new level.”

 

“Glad you won it then,” Louis says earnestly.

 

“The questions were honestly all things I even knew back from _The X-Factor_ ,” Harry confesses. “So maybe that crush on you came in handy after all.”

 

Louis shoots him an affronted look. “I think it _more_ than came in handy.”

 

Harry’s smile is easy and free as he picks through the shrimp. “Can you chop some herbs for me? The basil and the parsley.”

 

They’ve been cooking at home together enough that Louis knows them both by sight and smell and surprises even himself at how calm he is, chopping them up as requested. He remembers a few weeks ago when he was afraid to even touch one of Harry’s knives.

 

Speaking of knives, Louis glances over to where Niall Breslin and Sophia are working at the next station. They got saddled with the horrible box cutter, and Louis is really hopeful that it is going to make their time much more difficult.

 

He seems to be right, as Niall is bent over the cutting board, cursing fluidly and in great detail over how terrible the box cutter is at slicing up his vegetables.

 

Harry comes over to look. “Should’ve changed his game plan,” Harry whispers. “Came up with something that required less knife work. His cuts look _horrible_.”

 

“Does it really matter that much?” Louis asks, even though he already knows the answer. He knows the answer because Harry didn’t force him to chop carrots for hours just because he liked the way his hands looked on the knife and how his eyes narrowed in concentration. I mean Harry _did_ like those things, but knife work is _also_ important.

 

As predicted, Harry just rolls his eyes. He puts the lobster in the boiling water, after tossing in some of the lemons he’s already juiced and zested. “For flavor,” he adds. “It’s subtle but I think it’ll add something.”

 

“Are you afraid our dish is too simple?” Louis asks as Harry slices up a baguette.

 

“If it’s perfectly executed it shouldn’t matter,” Harry says confidently, but that isn’t really an answer and Louis knows it. He knows Harry well enough at this point to know all the things he leaves unsaid.

 

The hour passes by quickly but not so quickly that they don’t have the time to take the right amount of care with their dish. It’s as perfect as they can make it.

 

Harry is precise in a way that Louis hasn’t ever witnessed before. He’s focused and there’s much less time for flirting or small talk, though they do discuss the dish and what Louis can do to help. He grates parmesan cheese, finds the right serving vessel, brushes the baguette slices with olive oil and is then put on broiler duty as they toast.

 

“Just til they’re golden brown,” Harry warns for the fiftieth time.

 

“I know, I know,” Louis complains as he carefully slides them out of the oven. They look flawless, and he begins to get more excited.

 

Is it possible they might win a second time in a row?

 

He glances down the line. Sophia and Niall are making a hearty seafood chowder. Niall is grilling oysters, bending over the flames as he watches them diligently. Liam and Zayn have embarked on cooking an entire fish, stuffed with fennel and citrus.

 

Will their simple pasta be enough to carry the day? Louis hopes, but he can’t help but be nervous as Harry sprinkles parsley over their plated dish. Alton counts down and suddenly Emeril is back with the other judges.

 

Louis feels his heart beat a bit faster as the trio of judges start with Niall and Melissa’s oysters, which he describes as a modern take on Oysters Rockefeller.

 

“These are delicious,” Simon observes. “Really delicious in fact.”

 

“They _are_ good,” Geoffrey agrees, his brow wrinkling. “But with an hour of time, I would expect something a little more elaborate.”

 

Louis’ heart sinks a bit more. Elaborate? When Niall has roasted vegetables as a side as well as a parsnip puree? How will the judges take their own simple pasta dish?

 

When the judges move onto Zayn and Liam, Emeril speaks up for the first time and he effuses over their branzino. “Beautiful and ambitious,” he says. “Very tender fish, perfectly cooked and seasoned.”

 

When the judges move on from Zayn and Liam, they give each other a high five and Louis can’t help but wonder if they’re going to be the pair to beat.

 

Niall and Sophia are next up and Niall presents the steaming bowls of broth and seafood as a cross between cioppino and a traditional seafood stew.

 

However it becomes clear very quickly that something has gone wrong. “These vegetables,” Geoffrey says with a wrinkle of annoyance, “they’re very unevenly cut. Almost a bit too rustic for my tastes.”

 

“Definitely too rustic for me. And unevenly cooked as a result,” Emeril adds. “I just got a bite of raw onion.”

 

“I’d also like to see a bit more flavor developed,” Simon points out. “Though for only a sixty minute cooking time, it’s amazing what you _did_ get into the broth. It’s very tasty.”

 

Finally, it’s Louis and Harry’s turn to be judged. Louis feels like they have a very strong chance of at least moving on to next week and a good shot at potentially second place or maybe even first.

 

The judges dig into their bowls of pasta with gusto, Emeril immediately digging for the chunks of lobster that Harry tucked into the strands of spaghetti.

 

“Delicious,” Emeril pronounces and Harry’s smile is so bright it could light the soundstage. Louis is really rather unbearably proud. His boy is so damn good at what he does.

 

“Really beautifully cooked. Great flavor. Love the herbs and the lemon. It’s a simple dish but it’s a damn good one. I can’t find a flaw.”

 

“I’d say texture,” Geoffrey objects. “It’s all a little one note to me. But the garlic rubbed crostini does help a bit.”

 

“Gives it a good crunch when you need one,” Simon agrees.

 

The result is that when judging happens, Louis is feeling more relaxed than he ever has, facing the judging panel.

 

“Overall great food this week,” Alton says. “You should all be proud of what you’ve accomplished, making it to the final four. But I can only take three to the semi-final. And unfortunately, the team going home will be. . .Niall Breslin and Sophia Smith.”

 

Niall looks chagrined but not surprised. Louis isn’t either really. The box cutter was truly their downfall—though as Harry said, maybe if they had adjusted their strategy, it might not have been enough to send them home.

 

“Our third place team, with a place in the semi-final, is Niall and Melissa.”

 

Everyone claps politely and Niall barely looks pleased. Louis thinks he was probably hoping he would get a better placement and therefore more money to use in the semi-final and final rounds.

 

Louis reaches out for Harry’s hand as Alton announces the second place team. “And in second, Zayn and Liam with a beautifully executed branzino. Really impressive in the time you had,” Alton says.

 

Louis doesn’t get it for a moment then it hits them. Alton didn’t say their name. That means . . .that means. . .they _won_. _Again_.

 

Harry’s throwing his arms around Louis as Alton repeats their names, a bit of a smug edge to his voice. Louis doesn’t like to think these things are pre-determined, that maybe they’d have had a shot even _without_ the interview and suddenly becoming a food world sensation, but he’s certain that it doesn’t hurt.

 

“We did it, peaches,” Harry whispers into Louis’ ear. “We’re almost there.”

 

Louis hugs him back just as tightly. He no longer wonders if these shots will make the final edits. _He knows_. But it’s okay. He’s made his peace with how this has turned out. As long as Harry gets his bakery, he’s good.

 

Better than good, really.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [also Liz made me an amazing trailer! go check it out!](http://bethaboolou.tumblr.com/post/138258514010/taste-on-my-tongue-by-bethaboo-chapter-6-of)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to [Liz](http://cuethetommo.tumblr.com/) for being an amazing editor, as always.
> 
> one more chapter to go, and then a short epilogue!

Harry is in the kitchen, doing more recipe testing, when Louis comes bursting in, excited about his sudden realization.

 

“ _We_ should be matchmaking!” Louis announces as he plops down on one of Harry’s bar stools. Harry hums and wanders over, hands floury. He brushes a quick hello kiss across Louis’ lips, keeping it short and sweet to avoid dusting Louis with any more flour than is absolutely necessary.

 

Harry raises an eyebrow as Louis’ words sink in. “We should be matchmaking?” he asks dubiously.

 

“Niall!” Louis exclaims. “And Melissa!”

 

Harry’s dubious expression grows. “So you’re saying we should give one of our only advantages to one of the two groups of competitors that are left?”

 

Louis frowns. He didn’t think of that. He’s just been sitting in the studio all day, unsuccessfully trying to develop a hook for one of the new tracks he and Julian are working on, and all he could think of was how sweet Melissa was in the green room and how much Niall clearly likes her.

 

And if _Louis_ has managed to get everything he wants, then surely some other people should be able to benefit too. It’s only fair.

 

“What about this?” Harry asks, leaning against the counter. “I’m checking out a potential space this week, it’s got a kitchen in it already. Why don’t we have ourselves a little double date?”

 

“You looked at spaces today?” Louis asks excitedly.

 

Harry shoots him a fond smile. “You _knew_ I was looking at spaces this morning, Peaches.”

 

“I did, I did,” Louis admits with an even fonder look Harry’s way. “So you liked one of them?”

 

“There’s definitely a front-runner. Great big space, beautiful light, a courtyard and a garden, but with a small homey feel. _And_ it’s already got a kitchen. Needs a bit revamped, maybe, but there’s something to start with, instead of having to build from scratch. . .”

 

Louis feels a smile bloom on his face, and there’s no way he could even dream of holding it back, not when Harry is so lost in his plans and the world of his new bakery, excitement ripe in his voice. It’s the way Louis feels every time he and Julian submerge themselves into a new song.

 

“I can’t wait to see it,” Louis says and he reaches over, pulling Harry to him, never mind the flour. This is a big occasion. Harry might’ve found his bakery today.

 

Harry’s eyes are shining. “I do, I really do. The more I’ve thought about it this afternoon, the more I want it to be _the_ location.” His brow furrows. “I hope it works out.”

 

Louis smooths a reassuring hand down Harry’s back. He, usually a neat baker, has managed to get flour not just on his front, but all over his back too. Louis is hopelessly endeared. He wants Harry to smudge him with flour forever.

 

And well.

 

That’s a thought.

 

Louis’ brain stumbles at first then keeps going. It does make sense. He’s terribly in love with Harry. They’re fantastic together. Why wouldn’t he want to spend the rest of his life with him? He doesn’t have to take the steps _now_ to make that happen, but there’s nothing wrong  with thinking it every once in awhile.

 

Of course, if Louis is honest with  himself, he won’t restrict it to every once in awhile, but that’s okay too, right?

 

“It’ll work out,” Louis promises. “If it’s right, it’s gonna work out.”

 

Harry leans his head on Louis’ shoulder. “It’s a lot to take in,” he finally admits quietly.

 

“Then maybe we should do what you suggested, make a night of it, hone our matchmaking skills a bit. I know mine are a bit rusty.”

 

Harry raises his head and shoots him an incredulous look. “You tried to matchmake the postman and your neighbor across the way just last week!”

 

“That was amateur hour,” Louis sniffs. “Niall and Melissa deserve my finest work.” He pauses. “And _your_ finest work too, Bananas.”

 

“Does that mean we’re on?” Harry asks. “Should I call the agent and make some arrangements?”

 

“Tell Niall he’s responsible for at least _asking_ her himself.” Louis sniffs again. “No shirking.”

 

“So the point is to test out the kitchen, really,” Harry observes. “We could make our own dinner?”

 

Louis makes a face, but it’s not a bad idea. Sadly, he’s reluctantly come around to the idea of cooking lately, but it’s never going to be his first choice. And why would it be, if he has such a brilliant cook for a husband?

 

Louis freezes, even though he didn’t even say the word out loud.

 

_Husband_.

 

The word reverberates inside his head like bass in an underground club. In an instant, he can see it: Harry in their kitchen with their kids, baking sugar cookies, and decorating them with a mess of pink and purple icing. There’s glitter in his hair, but he’s laughing like he can’t stop. And Louis is there, and there’s an impromptu singalong, everyone grooving in their stocking feet to Louis’ latest record.

 

And the only word Louis can come up with to describe it is right.

 

It feels _right_.

 

It’s magical and staggering, to realize your life is laid out in front of you and you suddenly know exactly what you hope it’ll look like. And who you hope to share it with.

 

“Peaches?”

 

Louis comes back to reality with Harry repeating the endearment with amusement as he returns back to his mixing bowl.

 

“What are you making?” Louis asks stupidly, even as he thinks _sugar cookies. With pink and purple icing. And you’ve got glitter in your hair._

 

Harry smiles back him. “Apricot tarts with an almond _macaron_ shell,” he says, and Louis lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding.

 

“Sounds fancy.”

 

He’s both relieved and disappointed they’re nothing like the big clunky sugar cutouts that he was envisioning in his dream. It’s wonderful to _know_ , but that doesn’t mean he’s ready. He hasn’t even managed to tell Harry he’s in love with him yet. An important first step that he still needs to take. _At some point_.

 

“It _is_ , but it isn’t, if you get my drift,” Harry explains as he carefully dusts almond flour into the bowl. “The hearty filling of the apricots, and the gentle, delicate shell, traditional and French. A beautiful juxtaposition.”

 

Louis laughs and leans back against the counter. He loves to watch Harry in the kitchen, his arm muscles straining against the sleeve of his t-shirt as he whips the egg whites by hand, moving terrifyingly fast and with such confidence it takes Louis’ breath away. He’s never been that confident a day in his life. He has to let the songs he and Julian write grow on him, needs to talk himself into knowing they’re good. But Harry always _knows_. If he adds sugar and butter to flour, he knows what he’ll get, every single time, and it never fails to be delicious.

 

There’s a beautiful certainty to Harry that Louis loves. And really, Louis could rant and rave about that all day, but he’d sound like a lunatic. So he keeps it simple instead. “Juxtaposition?” he teases. “And here I thought you were a simple purveyor of baked goods.”

 

“Food is most extraordinary at the intersection of opposites,” Harry tutors. “Sweet and sour. Hot and cold. Bitter and sweet.”

 

“Like dark chocolate,” Louis says.

 

“Or like those sour peach gummies rolled in sugar that I know you hide and eat by the bagful,” Harry teases back.

  
Louis blushes. “Like those.”

 

“You always want different flavors, different textures. People don’t want to be bored when they eat. They want to be surprised, even when they claim they don’t.”

 

Over the last week, Harry has been imparting these tidbits of food philosophy to Louis, as if he has some inkling of what is to befall them in the next two weeks of _Kitchen Wars_ filming. And Harry’s probably not wrong. At some point, Louis will have to stand on his own, without Harry holding him up.

 

He’s not sure he’s ever really going to be ready for that, but Harry’s going to make sure he’s properly armed when it’s just him and the stove.

 

“Did you finally figure out the savory pastries?” Louis asks. “This is the first sweet you’ve made in awhile.”

 

“Put the finishing touches on the chicken and tarragon puff this afternoon,” Harry says as he carefully pipes out tartlet shells onto the parchment paper-covered baking tray. “And it felt like the right time to start something sweet.”

 

Louis bats his eyelashes and Harry giggles, bubbles escaping from his pastry bag. He makes a face at the ruined shape and scoops the batter back into the bag, one quick movement after another, so he can start over. “Yes, Peaches, you’re definitely sweet enough.”

 

“What’s for dinner then?” Louis asks.

 

Harry’s piping out the almond tart shells now, his concentration locked in and so Louis wanders over the to the takeout drawer and starts debating between curry and  kung pao.

 

Harry doesn’t emerge from his zone until he carefully slides the tartlet shells into the oven. He rises, stretching his back. “Sorry,” he says, “didn’t want the egg whites to fall.”

 

“It’s okay,” Louis waves a hand absently. “I was just trying to decide on dinner.”

  
“I could whip something up,” Harry says, because _of course he_ _can_. But he sounds tired, there’s the edge of it in his voice. He’s been cooking for most of the day. He could probably use a break.

 

“Nah,” Louis smiles over at him. “Let’s get takeout. Maybe some Netflix and chill.”

 

“Do people actually say that?” Harry wonders as he wanders over to examine the menus over Louis’ shoulder. “I thought that was a media construct.”

 

Louis makes a silly face. “I don’t say it, I _do_ it.”

 

Harry makes an even sillier one back. “Does that mean after dinner you’ll let me give you a blowjob?”

 

Louis waggles his eyebrows. “There’s absolutely nothing stopping you if the urge strikes.”

 

Harry’s arms wrap around Louis’ body, coasting down his chest, and resting perilously close to the zip of his jeans. Louis feels himself go a bit breathless. He keeps expecting this to start feeling normal or routine, but it never does. His blood still, _always_ , heats like it’s the very first time Harry put his hands on him.

 

“But we haven’t Netflixed yet,” Harry says, giving a last caress to Louis’ lower abs before his hands disappear entirely. Louis pouts.

 

“You do realize that it’s just an expression,” Louis maintains as Harry dials the number. Indian, just like Louis wanted, even though he hadn’t said so yet. “It doesn’t have a particular order.”

 

Harry raises an eyebrow. “And you want to have to stop when the food shows up?”

 

Louis reconsiders. It would almost certainly be inconvenient timing, at best. “Fair enough. Netflix _then_ chill.”

 

Harry shoots him a sly look. It’s hot and plenty dirty. “Oh, there won’t be any chilling here.”

 

It’s really a terrible joke, but Louis laughs anyway, because Louis doesn’t think he’s made to do anything but laugh. He wouldn’t really have it any other way.

 

\----

 

“So what do you think?” Harry asks, as they walk into the cavernous space, loaded with grocery bags.

 

Louis is still trying to get his bearings. The outside of the space is not much to look at—it’s rather narrow and dark and unassuming, actually—but once you step inside, the entry widens into this great hall of a room, with soaring ceilings and _god_ , the light coming from the enormous skylights. It’s like they’re filtering in the best of the weak London sun into this room. There’s a counter installed along the side, long and topped with a slab of incredible natural wood, buffed to a high gloss finish. The glass cases look like they’ve been removed along with all the tables and chairs in the room. There’s just that incredible counter—no doubt too heavy to actually move—and a huge expanse of hardwood floor.

 

“It’s so empty, I know,” Harry continues, before Louis can even get his breath back to answer. “The previous renters took most everything with them, anything they could really, though _thank god_ they couldn’t seem to move the counter. And of course, most of the kitchen equipment. But I’ll have to go through it and see if any is even worth salvaging.’

 

Louis knows how bright his smile is when he turns to Harry. “It’s perfect though. Empty or full, really.”

 

Harry sets his bags down gently on the counter and gazes around. “It is. The light is spectacular. And,” he continues, clearly enthusiastic about the possibilities, “there’s enough space that if I wanted to expand to a full breakfast or lunch menu, it’s very doable.”

 

Louis would be daunted by the logistics and work required to put this kind of operation together from scratch, but Harry isn’t even the tiniest bit. He’s buoyant with happy enthusiasm.

 

“You want to see the kitchen?” Harry asks.

 

“I mean, I’m the worst possible judge of a kitchen,” Louis laughs. “You know I never used mine before I met you.”

 

“A regular Carrie Bradshaw you were, darling,” Harry says with an indulgent smile and a squeeze of Louis’ bicep as they walk behind the counter and through the doorway to the kitchen. “Practically kept your sweaters in the oven.”

 

It’s all stainless steel, gleaming and spotless. Harry said the estate agent had sent a cleaning crew in preparation for tonight, and they did a great job because Louis thinks the floor looks cleaner than any of the surfaces in his flat.

 

There’s a lot of big equipment, some of it more worn than others, and Harry goes around pointing out the huge ovens and the mixers and the stoves.

 

“Well,” Louis says when Harry finishes. “It certainly looks big enough.”

 

There’s a flash of uncertainty in Harry’s eyes. An uncertainty that Louis hasn’t ever seen there before, but it’s also understandable because this is a _big_ undertaking, even with the kind of financial and business support that Alberto’s connections are bringing to the table.

 

“Any smaller though,” Louis continues, “and it wouldn’t be big enough.”

 

“I mean,” Harry says and the uncertain tone is in his voice now, and Louis can’t take it. Harry is so full of life and promise and possibility that the idea of him sounding nervous is difficult to hear.

 

So Louis just interrupts him. “It’s perfect. It’s absolutely fucking perfect, Bananas. Stop worrying.” He pauses. “ _Please_.”

 

Harry reaches over and wraps his arms around Louis, tugging him tight against his body. “Thank you,” he murmurs into Louis’ shoulder.

 

A knock coming from the back of the kitchen interrupts their moment. “That must be the rental company,” Harry explains. “Tables and chairs.”

 

“I thought this was just the four of us,” Louis wonders.

 

“It is,” Harry says, moving towards what must be the stockrooms and the back door, Louis trailing behind him. “But we still needed a place to sit down.”

 

After Harry’s signed for the table, chairs, the simple place settings and linens the rental company delivered, Harry makes an impatient gesture to Louis. “You can go, you know. I know you have a meeting. I’ll be fine here. I’ve got prep to do and dessert to bake.”

 

“You’ll be fine here?” Louis asks, even though he already knows the answer. Harry is insanely self-sufficient and besides, the last thing he probably needs is Louis’ assistance, which is spotty at best and a hindrance at  worst.

 

“Seriously,” Harry says, digging out his portable speaker from one of the bags and his wooden box of knives. “I’ll be perfectly fine here.”

 

Louis leans over and gives him a quick kiss that is in the middle of turning into a much longer, much hotter, full-on snog, when his phone buzzes in his pocket and reminds him that he has an important meeting to get to.

 

Harry knows it too, and gently, but firmly, pushes him out the door.

 

As Louis slides into his cab, he thinks that Harry is maybe beginning to understand him a bit too well.

 

\---

 

When Louis returns a few hours later, it’s like he’s walked into a totally different space.

 

The lights are dimmed, and there are candles scattered everywhere, their glass jars glowing bright green and yellow. There are flowers grouped across a long trestle table, daffodils and white hydrangea, and in the niches throughout the room. It’s fresh and bright and fragrant and it makes Louis wonder what Harry’s capable of with more than a few hours and some temporary staging. His apartment is lovely and elegant but simple, and Louis _knew_ he had good taste, but seeing it executed like this, like the beginning of Harry’s internal vision, is breathtaking.

 

There’s bottles of wine chilling in a rustic stainless ice bucket next to the counter and four wine glasses sitting on top of it, along with a large wooden cheeseboard, scattered with cheese and dried fruits and nuts.

 

It’s inviting and homey, and Louis didn’t think that was even possible to achieve in such an empty, blank space.

 

Harry walks out of the kitchen and lights up, his lips curving into a bright smile. “I thought I heard someone come in,” he says, reaching for Louis and hugging him tight. “What do you think?”

 

_I think I’m in love with you_ and _I think I want you to create a home for me and our future kids. I think I want to keep you forever._

 

Louis’ throat clogs a bit and he can only hug Harry tighter. “It’s perfect,” he mumbles into Harry’s neck. His hair is tied up in one of his buns, a few loose tendrils tickling Louis’ nose. “ _You’re_ perfect.”

 

Harry pulls back a little and the look on his face is as wondrous as Louis knows his own must be. They’re like two besotted fools, gazing at each other like they’ve discovered the secret of the universe. Louis is wondering if he can maybe convince Harry to have that snog they didn’t get earlier, but _of course_ , before he can even voice it, the front door opens and closes again, and they both reluctantly part as Niall and Melissa walk into view.

 

“Oi! You two are the worst,” Niall exclaims. He glances over at Melissa, his eyes twinkling. “Can’t leave ‘em alone for a moment.”

 

Louis gathers himself, remembering a bit belatedly that while this night can’t help but be a _tiny_ bit about him and Harry, considering where they’re at, it’s _mostly_ about Niall and Melissa.

 

When Harry had suggested the plan initially to Niall over speakerphone, so Louis could, _naturally_ , listen in, Niall had explained that Melissa _seemed_ interested enough, but had seemed nervous and shy about accepting any of his rather broad hints at invitations. Not wanting to face certain rejection, he’d avoided saying anything more pointed. But Louis knows how Melissa looks at Niall when he’s not looking. Melissa might be concerned, but she’s definitely interested.

 

Which is what Louis had told Niall in order to convince him to actually bite the bullet and _ask_ her.

 

Niall had texted back ten minutes after hanging up that she’d said yes, _and_ had seemed quite excited about the proposition.

 

It seems to Louis that there isn’t much more work to be done. Unless Niall bolloxes it up, he and Melissa are on their way to figuring out their shit. At least their intertwined hands seem to indicate strong movement in the right direction.

 

Louis’ gaze drops to them and then back up to Niall’s face for a long, pointed moment. He has the nerve to flush.

 

_Melissa doesn’t like me, my arse_ , Louis thinks.

 

“What’s for dinner?” Niall asks. Louis isn’t sure if he’s thinking with his stomach or he’s trying to change the subject.

 

Harry gestures them behind the counter, which Niall admires profusely, through the door to the kitchen, like the Pied Piper leading his children.

 

“Welcome to my new kitchen!” Harry exclaims.

 

Niall drops Melissa’s hand and throws his arms around Harry, catching him by surprise, and they embrace, hopping around the kitchen like two enthusiastic puppies who’ve just been given a brand new bone.

 

Melissa leans over. “They’re pretty cute, aren’t they?”

 

Louis observes the two of them for a moment. They’re holding each other still, Harry excitedly and in extreme detail describing all sorts of food-y things that Louis can’t understand. He just _really_ loves this boy.

 

“Tolerable, I’d say,” Louis says with a quirk of his lips. He’s afraid if he says more, it’s all gonna come tumbling out, unbidden. Melissa is a nice person. She doesn’t need to know about that little panting gasp Harry makes when he gets really turned on and Louis is nosing at his pants-covered cock. Or the way Harry curls around Louis in bed when he’s had a bad day, even though Louis will loudly and vociferously claim he is _always_ the big spoon. The way Harry’s hair gets stuck in his mouth and Louis not only doesn’t mind, he _likes_ it.

 

“Are you two finished over there or are you going to keep gossiping while we slave over the stove?”

 

Louis looks up to see Harry’s eyes twinkling. “So?” he asks again impudently. Louis wants to bend him over one of these counters and fuck him until he can’t do anything but beg for more.

 

But _that’s_ a really bad line of thought to have right now, when they have a whole evening with Niall and Melissa to get through before sex is even remotely on the menu.

 

“Let’s cook,” Louis says with a lopsided smile. “And yes, for the record, I actually said that.”

 

Louis is painstakingly chopping vegetables for a salad, which isn’t really all that interesting when he can see Niall and Melissa giggling over the grill top, cooking beef tenderloin medallions wrapped in bacon. He doesn’t know how he _ever_ thought Niall needed assistance with Melissa. The two of them aren’t quite as wrapped up in each other as he and Harry are, but it’s closer than Louis realized.

 

Harry comes up behind him. “How’s it going?” he asks, snagging a piece of tomato.

 

Louis gives an exaggerated sigh. “I don’t know why I ever thought they needed help.”

 

Harry’s expression is innocence personified, though Louis thinks he maybe knows better. “Trying to make me feel necessary was nice,” Louis continues. “A great touch.”

 

Harry shrugs. “Niall would’ve asked her out at some point. You just speeded along the process. That was a necessary component.”

 

It isn’t really. Harry’s being nice. But Louis always likes it when Harry is nice, so he lets it go.

 

“They’re cute,” he pronounces as he tosses the rest of the veggies in the wooden salad bowl, “but not as cute as us.”

 

Harry smacks an exaggerated kiss onto Louis’ cheek. “Not even close, Peaches,” he says, as he turns around to check on the potatoes in the oven.

 

“You know who’s _really_ cute,” Niall says, wandering over, followed closely by Melissa, who’s holding the tray of steaks. “Liam and his boyfriend.”

 

Louis does a double take. He had no idea Liam had a boyfriend. Or really that Liam liked boys at all.

 

Niall swipes a cucumber slice from the salad bowl. “I take it from your astonished expressions you don’t know about Liam and Jordan Payton.”

 

“Jordan who?” Harry asks as he dishes up his potatoes onto a platter, handing Louis a bowl of yogurt whipped with feta for the potatoes.

 

“Jordan Payton,” Niall explains patiently as they all load up their arms with food and move out of the kitchen towards the dinner table.

 

“The name sounds familiar,” Harry confesses as they sit down.

 

“He’s a football player,” Melissa supplies. “American football.”

 

“He plays for a team that just relocated to LA. That’s why Liam’s doing a lot more work in California, lately, and why he agreed to do _Kitchen Wars_ ,” Niall explains. “He wants to open a restaurant in LA.”

 

“I thought being out like wasn’t okay for football players. American or otherwise,” Louis says, even though as soon as he says it, he feels like a complete dumbass. It wasn’t really okay for pop singers either, and Louis did it anyway. And not even for as good as a reason as Jordan; really only to prove his ex-boyfriend that he was wrong that he wasn’t scared of the world knowing.

 

Even that had been lie; he’d been fucking terrified.  But he’d done it anyway, and even though he’d been worried for years about it being a terrible mistake of timing, he knew now that any other way would have been an even bigger mistake.

 

He’d stayed true to himself.

 

“Wait,” Louis continued before anyone could comment. “I said that without thinking. It doesn’t matter if he’s out or not. Or if he’s a football player. He should do what’s best for him.”

 

Harry looked over at him pensively. “It’s a legitimate question,” he says softly. “It would be hard to be the first, if that’s what he chose to do.”

 

“Sports is unrelenting,” Melissa offers. Louis realizes she would know, being an Olympic swimmer. “Everyone wants something out of you, but all they want are the same things; variations on the same themes. They want to be able to package you and sell you easily, and that only works with what they’re familiar with. So they force you into the pattern and hope you don’t fuck it up by saying or doing the wrong thing.”

 

It’s the most Melissa has said this whole evening, and it’s by far the most profound. Mid-way through cutting his first bite of steak, Louis freezes and lifts his eyes to her. There’s heat in her words, and a fierce intelligence. She won’t be forced into _anything_ , he feels. And he likes her more for it.

 

She blushes. “Sorry that was so serious. Here we were, having a good time, and I had to go bring down the meal.”

 

Harry is the quickest to speak up. He reaches over and covers her hand with his own, squeezes. “On the contrary, all you’ve done is elevated the conversation.”

 

She flushes brighter when Niall casually wraps an arm around her waist. “Really, what Harry’s saying is that you’re a hell of a lot smarter _and_ stronger than the rest of us. Two chefs and a singer. You’re slumming it tonight, babe.”

 

Melissa’s very shy, sweet glance in Niall’s direction, like he’s everything she’s wanted but afraid she couldn’t have, is the last bit of reassurance that Louis needs that he did the right thing in planning this double date. He might not be completely responsible for this bit of matchmaking, but he will certainly take credit for speeding up the inevitable.

 

After finishing off the bitter chocolate crème brûlée with the salted caramel hazelnut whipped cream, Harry and Louis are in the kitchen, doing a last cleanup. They’d sent Melissa and Niall off to go get drinks (or to go back to his place for a drink, as Harry had whispered with the cutest giggle in Louis’ ear). Melissa had half-heartedly protested, but Harry and Louis had been unyielding, and so off they’d gone, with stars in their eyes.

 

“They’re good for each other,” Louis pronounces as he jumps up on the stainless steel counter, letting his legs swing carelessly.

 

“Agreed,” Harry says, as he finishes packing up their last bag of supplies to take back to his flat. He turns, and lets out a groan. “What have I told you about sitting on counters?”

 

Louis smirks. “That it’s a very naughty thing to do?”

 

Harry’s laughing as he sets down his bag and walks over to where Louis is sitting, resting one hand on each of his knees, situating himself in-between Louis’ legs. Right where he should _always_ be, if Louis has any say in the matter.

 

“I told you,” Harry says, very seriously, but he’s smiling so wide it feels like his mouth takes up half his face, “not ever to do it.”

 

Louis shrugs. That’s never really stopped him before. Besides, he rather likes riling Harry up. And he certainly looks riled up right now.

 

Harry just sighs, tilting his head and looking unbearably fond. “That’s what I love about you, Peaches.”

 

It’s very stupid, because it’s not like Harry actually _says_ it—then again, he kind of _does_ say it—but it doesn’t matter because Louis freezes anyway, like Harry has, in fact, said those three magic words.

 

Harry doesn’t even realize it, doesn’t even notice that Louis has frozen, his eyes big and wide, just keeps babbling on about Louis’ stupid jokes and teasing and all these other things that are usually quite important but right now just feel quite silly in the face of what Harry has kind of said.

 

“Did you mean that?” Louis interrupts him breathlessly. Finally. This is the end of the line; the end of all those endless rounds of questions.

 

Harry looks perplexed. “Did I mean what?”

 

Louis isn’t amused. This is not the time to be joking around.

 

“Did you mean that you loved that about me? Or that you loved me?”  The words are frankly out of his mouth before he can even dream of taking them back. It’s been too long, and he’s been holding them back for enough time that they just tumble out now, gracelessly.

 

“Because I love you,” Louis continues in a jumble as Harry just stands there, a bit shocked. A good kind of shocked, Louis interprets, and fervently hopes that he’s not wrong.

 

And suddenly, Harry’s confusion smooths into the brightest smile, his eyes gleaming like emeralds in the dimly lit kitchen. It feels appropriate, Louis decides a bit hysterically, that this is coming to a head in a kitchen.

 

“Of course I love you,” Harry finally says. “I love you so much. I thought that. . .I thought that was a bit obvious? That I’m absolutely gone for you? I mean, I call you Peaches. We’re practically living together. I don’t even like being in a different room from you. All of my pastries are suddenly inspired by you. I’m completely crazy for you.”

 

It hits Louis like a wave, and he’s drowning in love for a moment, but when he reaches the surface and can breathe again, it’s the best gulp of air he’s ever had. “Ditto,” he giggles, hooking his legs behind Harry’s back and tugging him close until he can lean down and kiss him.

 

The kiss only stays sweet and soft for a moment, but Louis’ heels dig hard into Harry’s back, pulling him impossibly closer. It gets deep and dirty, tongues sliding together wetly and Louis is gasping into Harry’s mouth as his hands creep up Louis’ thighs, thumbs digging into his muscles.

 

“Love you,” Louis whispers against Harry’s lips, “ _love you_.”

 

Harry murmurs it back, not just twice, but a litany against Louis’ skin, over and over. Until he feels branded with it and he’s never been happier in his entire life.

 

“Let’s go home,” Louis suggests with a dirty eyebrow waggle that only a man in love might appreciate. And Harry doesn’t disappoint,

 

“This is going to change everything,” Louis admits in the cab as they head back to Harry’s flat.

 

“Or nothing,” Harry corrects softly. “I feel like I’ve loved you for so long, I’m not sure of any other way to be. Like, I knew so much about you from _The X-Factor_ and when you walked in that day and couldn’t even cut a carrot properly, that was all it took.”

 

The cab stops in front of Harry’s flat and they lug the bags up the stairs. Louis has never seen Harry treat kitchen equipment or groceries roughly _once_ so it comes as quite a surprise when he drops the bags he’s carrying right in the tiny entryway and crowds Louis up against the door.

 

“You were so beautiful and cute and _clueless_ ,” Harry repeats and he’s smiling so brightly that Louis can’t look away.

 

“Clueless, huh?” Louis can’t help a smirk.

 

Harry just giggles though.

 

“I . . .I loved you the moment you joked about getting the mixer attachment in the hole,” Louis confesses. It’s so outside of his realm of experience to have someone who actually _wants_ to talk about these things, who revels in the joy of falling fast and hard. With Harry, there’s no shame, no hiding his feelings so he doesn’t feel stupid and cliché. There’s only love, holding them together in this perfect bubble.

 

“You finally going to let me listen to your music now?” Harry asks.

 

“You knew. . .of course you knew,” Louis realizes.

 

“I wondered,” Harry confirms, “but it’s okay because now you can play me all of them and I can cry and then we can laugh, and then I can keep you in the bed for twenty four hours straight.”

 

Louis likes the sound of that very much. He’s never been particularly good at expressing his feelings, all while experiencing too much of them to handle, so it’s a big thing to confess softly, “it’s never been this way for me before. Not even close.”

 

Harry’s expression is sure and solemn. “Me either, Peaches. Me either.”

 

It feels like a complete no brainer to kiss again. A lot. Against the door. Until Louis’ knees feel just about ready to give up the ghost and melt into jelly. It’s the way Harry kisses, probably—like Louis is the only person he wants to kiss, ever. Louis doesn’t know how he wasn’t more certain before this that Harry loves him. It’s in every angle that Harry bends himself to, so he can surround Louis completely. It’s in every delicate lick of his tongue against Louis’. It’s the way his thumbs caress his cheekbones and then drift to his collarbones.

 

It’s also in the way that the moment Louis feels like he’s gonna just slide to the floor, Harry scoops him up and carries him to their bed.

 

“Our bed,” Louis says dazedly, realizing for the first time that whatever bed they’re in, Harry’s or Louis’, it’s still always going to be _theirs_. That’s a heady realization that sends the rest of his blood straight to his already hardening cock.

 

“Wanna fuck you, Peaches,” Harry says, and Louis can only nod helplessly. He kinda _really_ wants that too. He’s so turned on his blood seems to boil with it.

 

The first slide of skin on skin feels like a revelation, a ghost even of the time they did this the first time, when Harry went out of his way to make it romantic and sweet. It feels so much more now, so much _bigger_ , that Louis nearly cries when Harry slides the first finger inside him. But it’s Harry who moans brokenly.

 

Louis thinks he’s been in love before, but it’s never felt like this with another man before. Every movement, every touch, every frisson of pleasure is _more_ somehow, and being in love hasn’t changed anything; it _still_ feels like more. As Harry slides inside of him, he knows he wants him this close for the rest of his goddamn life. He’s never letting this boy go.

 

“Perfect,” Harry groans into Louis’ neck, his teeth catching on the tendon, roughing him up the tiniest bit as his strokes are so long and slow and even that they’re driving Louis out of his fucking mind. Harry knows how to make it hot and good, but that isn’t even why Louis loves him.

 

But it certainly doesn’t hurt.

 

“Bananas,” Louis gasps out as Harry refuses to speed up, despite Louis’ intense efforts to persuade him leave him panting in more ways than one, “ _please_.”

 

“Need a hand, baby?” Harry asks with a smirk, and then, in such an infuriatingly Harry, suddenly starts fucking him into the mattress. It turns out that Louis _doesn’t_ need a hand; he just needs Harry to stop teasing.

 

“That was good,” Louis says later, when they’re clean and dry, tucked back into the cocoon of Harry’s bed. “But it really wasn’t all that much different. I thought it might be, but no.”

 

Harry laughs softly into Louis’ shoulder. “We’ve loved each other for awhile. Besides, while being slightly more attuned to each other’s desires, and maybe a trifle more selfless, how is having sex while we’re in love any different really than having sex if we merely like each other?”

 

Louis is perplexed for a moment. He’s never thought about this before. “I mean, it _wasn’t_ all that different. It felt like more of the same, like _better_ more, sure, but still just more.”

 

“I’m still going to want to ride you, I’m still going to want to fuck you into the mattress. I’m still gonna want to bend you over Niall’s desk and eat you out until you cry and beg for it. That’s part of loving you too.”

 

“Even if I wanted it rough?” Louis asks, because he’s beginning to discover that he does. And so does Harry. They’re a good, if rather incendiary, combo.

 

“Especially if you wanted it rough. Or I wanted it rough, actually,” Harry laughs with a bit of a self-deprecating edge. “It’s all about trust, baby.”

 

“And here I thought trust was overrated,” Louis pronounces drowsily.

 

\---

 

Louis thought he might, faced with Liam and Zayn, think of them slightly differently now that he knows why Liam is doing this show in the first place. That Liam wanting to be closer to his boyfriend might somehow trump Louis’ insatiable desire to win. After all, Harry’s going to get his bakery now regardless. He’s signed the papers. The building is his. The remodeling has already begun. They don’t _need_ to win.

 

But Louis wants to win anyway. He’s just not that good of a person.

 

“You better be ready to lose,” Niall calls out as they assemble in the kitchens for filming. “I brought my A game today.” Next to him, Melissa blushes, and Louis debates whether his whole matchmaking idea was smart. Niall looks ready to take on the world today.

 

Louis glances over at Harry. They sure should be too, after exchanging exceedingly sappy I love you’s upstairs in the green room before coming downstairs to compete in this semi-final round. He raises his chin a bit. He’ll take Niall’s just been fucked glow and raise it one my-boyfriend-told-me-he-loves-me, thank you very much.

 

“Welcome to our semi-final round,” Alton says as filming starts. “Where things start getting. . .good.” He cackles for a moment. “Or progressively more evil,” he continues, “depending on how you think of it. Let’s get started, shall we?”

 

Getting started consists of Alton bringing out the guest judge, who is someone by the name of Scott Conant. Alton rattles off his resume, which mostly consists of apparently owning a whole _chain_ of restaurants as well as being a lauded judge on many competitive cooking programs. He doesn’t _seem_ like much, as much as Louis’ admires the sport coat he’s wearing, but he must be, because someone with that sort of pedigree can’t possibly be an easy critic to impress.

 

“As Scott’s restaurants are most famous for their Italian roots, I thought it would be appropriate if we celebrate the art of pasta today,” Alton concludes. Louis nods. Pasta. Okay, he loves pasta. He also really loves it when Harry cooks him pasta.

 

The sixty second shopping time comes and goes, and Harry comes back with a satisfyingly full basket of ingredients. Louis thinks he spies tomatoes and cheese and of course, the ingredients to make fresh pasta.

 

“Now for the first auction item,” Alton says with an extra dramatic flourish. “This is an oldie but a goodie, I think. A real classic.”

 

Someone wheels out a kitchen that looks like the one Louis’ younger sisters played with a few years ago. _When they were toddlers_.

 

Everything is tiny, including the stove and the oven, which can’t actually be a functioning piece of equipment. He looks over at Harry, and sees his eyes grow wide.

 

They’d already discussed potentially bidding for and buying one of the sabotages today. Louis knows there are two, so it’s a bit of a risk to bid for the first one, but he can’t possibly imagine anything worse than this. He doesn’t know how you’d actually _cook_ anything on that stove and since cooking is a required element, this is going to have to go to Niall or Liam.

 

“Let’s open the bidding at five hundred pounds,” Alton says.

 

“Thousand,” Louis shoots right back.

 

“Thousand five,” Niall chimes in. Louis is sweating a little; the one person he didn’t really want to bid against was Niall. Niall’s proven to be both relentless and completely unconcerned about the amount of cash he has available to him. Not a good combination.

 

“Three thousand,” Louis responds, hoping to scare him away with how high the number is already. He does seem to have scared off Zayn and Liam, if they were ever even considering bidding in the first place.

 

“Four,” Niall yells happily.

 

He and Harry have never spent this much on an auction item before, but then again, they’ve won two weeks in a row now. They’ve got the extra funds. He might as well use them.

 

“Five,” he calls back again. Alton’s eyebrows shoot up and Louis stares him down, trying to pretend he isn’t flushed and flustered. He doesn’t like these auctions, but he has to do _something._ He can’t ask Harry to do ninety percent of the cooking and bid for the auction items as well.

 

“Five four,” is what almost instantly comes from Niall. Louis gnashes his teeth in frustration. Why won’t he just _stop_ bidding?

 

“Five five,” Louis grits out and Niall finally throws up his hands in mock surrender, grinning like a loon the entire damn time. Which immediately makes Louis think all he was doing was driving up the price.

 

Louis is not amused, even after he gives the tiny kitchen to Liam and Zayn, who have the nerve to not even look slightly panicked.

 

Louis continues to be not amused as the next auction item is revealed. It’s a spoon. They all stare at it, mystified. Louis wonders if they’re going to use it to scrape out each other’s eyeballs, a little bit at a time.

 

“I know you’re wondering, what could this possibly mean?” Alton asks. He’s got an absolutely conniving expression on his face and Louis knows that means _nothing_ good is about to happen. _Nothing_.

 

“We’re going to auction off . . . the ability to taste your own food.”

 

Louis fully expects Harry to groan out loud next to him. He’s always telling him, over and over again, how important tasting the food at every stage of cooking is. But when Louis looks over, he’s perfectly calm and relaxed. Serene, almost.

 

It’s not like Louis could have bid for this sabotage even if he’d wanted to, though, so he gets to sit back and watch Niall and Zayn fight for it, all while knowing that it is almost certainly going to be given to him and Harry.

 

The spoon is, for the affordable price of thirty eight hundred pounds, delivered to their station by a very smug Niall Horan.

 

Louis regrets ever wanting to help him snag Melissa.

 

“Oh,” Alton smirks. “Your challenge this week.” He whips his arm around and he’s holding a rope. “You’ll be _tied_ together for the entirety of the sixty minute time period.”

 

There is a large chorus of groans. Everyone except him and Harry that is. Louis just smirks at Harry, who smirks back. He wonders if Alton’s been listening into some of their conversations. They’ve been discussing introducing some light bondage into the bedroom, and fuck if Louis doesn’t think this is a great start.

 

They get tied up, and Louis rolls his eyes when the knot is tied purposefully loose, with all kinds of give, and it’s only one hand. This is a joke. Alton could have made this so much harder. Sure, he and Harry will have to work together on any task that requires more than one hand, but they’re so in-sync anyway, Louis doesn’t really see that being too much of an issue.

 

“Aren’t you worried about not being to taste anything?” Louis asks Harry as they unload their ingredients from the basket. There are tomatoes and cheese, a big hard brick of cheese. Louis sniffs at it and is surprised at how pleasantly nutty it smells. There’s herbs and sausage too.

 

“Nah,” Harry whispers conspiratorially, “I can make Bolognese in my sleep. The ingredients are so standard, it shouldn’t be too much of an issue. Besides, I think we’re going to be a lot better off than those two.” He nudges Louis’ hip in the direction of Zayn and Liam in the tiny kitchen. He can already hear frustration in their voices as they try to navigate the miniscule space, all while tied together.

 

“What’s Bolognese?” Louis asks.

 

Harry just rolls his eyes. “Basically, tomato sauce with meat.”

 

“Oh, _that_ pasta,” Louis exclaims. “That’s delicious. Like of course it’s delicious when you make it for dinner, but my favorite is probably when it’s late at night and I’m hungry from, _you know_ , and I sneak back into the kitchen and eat it out of the Tupperware cold.”

 

“Is it sneaking if I know you’re doing it?” Harry asks fondly.

 

“Yes,” Louis insists.

 

Together, they start a big sauté pan with the sausage and onion and garlic. Louis has to hold the onion while Harry chops. It takes them a bit longer and some trust, but they get it done. Harry eschews chopping the garlic, decided to use the knife to smash it to a paste instead. The smells from what they’re already cooking are delicious. Louis feels rather unbearably smug, as he glances over to where Niall and Melissa are clearly bickering, and then to where Zayn and Liam are struggling with an oven that seems to be heated with a lightbulb.

 

“Stop gloating and come help me get the pasta machine,” Harry laughs.

 

They cart the machine over to their station and Harry mixes together the pasta dough with his one hand. “Are we being too ambitious?” he wonders quietly as they begin to feed the dough through the machine.

 

“It’s the semi-final. I don’t think there’s such a thing as too ambitious,” Louis pronounces.  


“Besides,” he adds with a tiny brush of his lips to Harry’s cheek, “your fresh pasta is delicious.”

 

Harry blushes. “Maybe even worth the annoyance of chopping the herbs with one hand.”

 

The pasta dough takes forever to get rolled thin enough and then they have to carefully feed it through the cutter that divides into long, wide strips. They take breaks periodically to check the sauce, to add tomatoes, to add spices and herbs, to add salt and pepper with a look of intense concentration on Harry’s face. Louis gets it. If he can’t taste it before he presents it to the judges, Harry has to be deliberate about everything he adds to the sauce.

 

With ten minutes to go, and the distinct sounds of swearing coming from the tiny kitchen, they pop the pasta quickly in a pot of boiling water and then Harry, with lots of Louis’ assistance, combines it with the sauce, and then carefully positions it into a beautiful swirl in the center of their bowl. Louis holds the parmesan cheese steady as Harry swipes a grater over the surface, dusting the pasta with cheese. A sprinkle of herbs and they’re done.

 

Harry wipes his brow when they sit back and Alton re-enters to countdown the final seconds. Louis feels as apprehensive as he looks. Niall has a beautiful dish of what looks to be scampi, and even Zayn and Liam have put together something that at least _looks_ good.

 

This time, the judges start with Harry and Louis.

 

“Pasta Bolognese with herb fettuccine and some parmesan cheese,” Harry explains politely as he nervously eyes Scott Conant. He _is_ the Italian here.

 

“Pasta is perhaps a trifle soft,” Scott pronounces, “but the herbs are delicious, and the flavor of the sauce stands up well against them. A great job.”

 

“I’m going to eat this whole bowl,” Geoffrey Zakarian jokes, which sends Louis’ heart into an unsteady rhythm. Geoffrey doesn’t tend to joke. He’s unreasonably serious most of the time. And he is probably the pickiest person that Louis has ever met in his entire life. He could find fault with _anything_.

 

“An excellent dish of pasta boys,” Simon adds. “Could have used a tiny bit more salt, though.”

 

Harry raises his eyes skyward and Louis _knows_ he is thinking about how he was literally _not allowed_ to taste the food before it was put in front of judges. Frankly if a bit of salt is all they’re missing, it’s a bloody miracle.

 

Still, Louis feels confident about them heading to the final. They didn’t have a single major flaw.

 

Of course, Niall and Melissa don’t really either.

 

“This is really good,” Scott claims, as he wraps the pasta around his fork. “Though I get that bit of woodiness that I usually do from dry pasta. I’m assuming this isn’t fresh.”

 

Louis doesn’t think he imagines the quick, dirty look that Niall shoots Harry.

 

“No, it’s not fresh,” Niall admits.

 

“Fresh pasta and a sauce in sixty minutes isn’t easy,” Scott says understandingly. Louis doesn’t want him to be understanding, but then he keeps going. “But your competitors did it and did a credible job.”

 

“Still, this is delicious,” Simon says.

 

“I think my shrimp might be overcooked,” Geoffrey adds, and there is the picky judge that Louis knows—and doesn’t really love. “Just a tad. How are yours?” he asks the others.

 

“Mine are a bit on the rubbery side too,” Simon admits.

 

Louis thinks they’re barely inching out Niall and Melissa when the trio of judges hits the wild card of the day, Zayn and Liam. They could have done something spectacular with that tiny kitchen, but Louis is betting (hoping) that they didn’t.

 

“A raw spicy tomato sauce,” Liam explains politely.

 

It takes a long time after that first bite before Scott says anything. Louis feels like his breath is clawing out of his lungs and there’s a hush that’s fallen on the entire set as everyone waits for what he thinks of this “raw” sauce.

 

Scott, of course, figures it out. “This doesn’t strike me as a particularly ‘raw’ sauce,” he finally says. “Not the purpose of raw anyway. It more strikes me as a sauce that just isn’t cooked.”

 

That oven and stove with their lightbulb heating elements have done their job. Louis wants to give himself a high five. He settles for giving Harry a low five under the cover of their station.

 

Geoffrey and Simon make similar comments, and even though everyone protests that the taste is good, Louis knows it’s not going to be enough to save them.

 

And it isn’t. Louis doesn’t feel a single ounce of remorse when fifteen minutes later, Zayn and Liam are sent packing.

 

They’ve made it to the final.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter is finally here! Thank you to everyone who's read, recommended, commented, or messaged me about how much they've enjoyed this fic. It means so much to me.
> 
> Thank you to all the editors that helped make TOMT what it is today: Mirjam, Clare and Liz.
> 
> This chapter Louis finally plays Harry some of his music. I have imbedded the links to the songs in the text, so you can play them if you'd like. And yes, from the beginning, I'd envisioned that Louis would write this particular album.

Louis settles his knees further into the duvet and arches his back, pushing the curve of his arse deeper into Harry’s face. “Like that, Bananas?” Louis croons as he wiggles just the tiniest bit, giving Harry a taste of his own medicine.

 

If he had the available brain cells to truly consider it, Louis might think that he enjoyed this other side of their relationship too—when they flip the power and he gets Harry literally on his knees, then on his back—but he doesn’t. He just doesn’t. Because Harry’s slipped his tongue down his crack, and is now teasingly circling his hole and the pleasure is hot and thick in his veins.

 

“Harold,” Louis breathes out unsteadily, his voice high and breathy. “We should have been doing this every time we won.”

 

Louis can feel Harry’s giggle, and it’s way hotter than it should be.

 

That’s another thing he loves so much about Harry; the bedroom isn’t always serious. They can laugh and joke and tease and still make each other moan all in the space of five minutes. It’s brilliant.

 

Louis leans forward, careful to not move from where Harry is finally applying himself to his work, and lets just his breath ghost over Harry’s hard cock. It’s hard and bright red at the tip, precome bubbling out of his slit. There’s a wordless whine from the general direction of where Harry’s upper half is buried under Louis’ body. Louis just laughs.

 

“Yeah, you want it,” Louis croons to Harry’s dick as he leans a bit further down, close enough that he can swipe just his tongue across the head, gathering the taste of Harry there.

 

Harry’s hips stutter upwards, chasing Louis’ mouth, but Louis places his hands on his thighs and presses hard. Hard enough to leave blooming red marks across the pale skin. He trusts that Harry will do something if he hurts him, but all Harry seems to want to do is flick his tongue against Louis’ hole harder and more insistently. Which Louis is pretty okay with.

 

“Don’t move,” Louis insists. “And if you want more, you’d better give me something.”

 

Harry’s reaction is almost instantaneous. Louis gets a spit-slick finger sliding next to Harry’s tongue almost before he can imagine what it is that Harry will do. A tiny whine escapes from Louis’ throat and he can’t help but want to arch his back even more insistently into Harry’s face.

 

But Harry’s so good, Louis wants to reward him. So he leans forward again and this time his mouth sinks down onto Harry’s cock, his fingers still holding onto Harry’s thighs to keep him in place.

 

It gets hot so fast, Harry’s cock practically down his throat, and Harry’s tongue and fingers practically wrenching Louis’ orgasm from him.

 

It doesn’t take Harry much longer, his entire body tensing as he shoots into Louis’ mouth.

 

Louis reaches for a spare sock next to the bed and wipes down his tummy as Harry lays back against the pillows, curls frizzing around his face, a smile on his face.

 

“Liked that, didn’t you, Bananas?” Louis teases.

 

Harry just shrugs, radiating calm from every pore. Louis throws the sock to the ground, damn the mess and Harry’s inevitable scream of betrayal when he goes to put it on the next morning, and snuggles up next to him.

 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Harry asks. “I feel like maybe we should talk about it.”

 

Louis would rather walk over burning hot coals than talk about his sexual kinks, newly discovered or otherwise, but he and Harry are in an adult relationship and they love each other. He should probably make the effort.

 

But he sure as hell isn’t going to look Harry in the eye while they talk about it. He buries further into the pillow and ignores Harry’s quiet chuckle. “I like it,” Louis finally says. “Don’t you like it?”

 

“I do like it. I like that it’s something we share. That we can both take control. And that we don’t always have to do it.” Harry’s voice is soft and though he doesn’t say a word about Louis’ hiding his face, Louis still feels like he’s being coaxed out of his hiding place.

 

He finally glances up when he feels like his flush is finally fading. “It’s fucking hot,” Louis admits.

 

Harry chuckles louder now. His eyes are soft and hot and knowing all at the same time. Louis loves him more in this moment than he has ever before. “Maybe if we go further, we should talk about what we like and what we don’t.”

  
Louis squirms. He absolutely doesn’t. Besides, he isn’t even sure what the answer to that question is. Before Harry, he sure as hell never trusted a partner enough to even want to explore this side of him.

 

“Or we could address it as things come up,” Harry offers, like he knows without being told that Louis would rather hide under the blankets forever than discuss it. “How about we just agree on a word we can both use when it becomes too much?”

 

That is easy enough. Louis can do that. “Pancake,” he says decisively and Harry makes a soft sound of agreement.

 

They’re quiet for a few long moments longer before Harry finally murmurs into Louis’ skin, “We’re so good together. Better every day, even. The Dream Team.”

 

Louis falls asleep and stays that way, until six AM when he wakes up to Harry’s screech of annoyance and frustration when he discovers his sock is full of Louis’ come.

 

Louis can’t help but smile into his pillow; they really are the Dream Team.

 

\---

 

**You promised me I could listen** , is the text message Louis gets from Harry three days later.

 

Harry’s been busy meeting with architects and designers and working on his business plan, so they’ve barely had time to see each other. It’s not like Louis thinks that Harry’s forgotten about him—that’s not what people in love _do_ , at least not the kind of people that Harry is, but Louis can’t help but smile widely at the message anyway.

 

That happiness is closely followed by crippling self-doubt, but Louis is going to have to work through that at some point or so Alberto has been telling him. But then Alberto has never experienced being dropped by his label, either.

 

Louis balances his phone on his knee and tries to gather his courage. **How about tonight?** is what he sends back to Harry. Sooner is probably better, because then Louis won’t have the opportunity to chicken out. He thought it would be easier to share his music with Harry after they’d exchanged “I love you’s,” but it turns out that isn’t exactly the case. He’s still stomach-churningly nervous.

 

Julian has been saving the demos to his laptop and working on them some nights after they’re done recording, so Louis doesn’t have a choice. When they’re about to start packing up for the day, Louis has to ask Julian for copies.

 

Of course, Julian knows exactly why Louis wants them. “Gonna finally let your boy hear his songs, huh?” Julian asks with a lopsided grin.

 

Louis blushes. How is he ever going to make it through any of these songs, when he can barely find it in himself to ask Julian for the copies?

 

“I could want them to work on them,” Louis counters, but they both know that’s not true. After a day of writing and recording and tweaking, he doesn’t feel like continuing at home. Home is where Harry is, and besides, it feels good to get a break and come back refreshed the next morning.

 

Julian just shoots him a knowing look, but also transfers the songs over a spare jump drive and hands it to Louis as they’re packing up.

 

Louis tries to take it out of his hand as he holds it out, but Julian’s holding it fast. “Promise me one thing,” Julian insists.

 

Louis tugs harder, but Julian is holding fast. “Fine,” Louis finally relents.

 

“Promise me you’ll remember that you’re a damn good singer and a damn good songwriter. None of this false modesty, _I’m secretly sure I’m total crap_ bullshit, okay? You’re good. Take it and own it.”

 

Louis hesitates. Julian holds out the jump drive again. “Promise me,” he repeats, even more insistently. “And the last thing you need to be worried about is Harry. That boy loves you.”

 

It feels that lately, Louis has been standing at quite a few crossroads. This feels like yet another one. He can either stay where he’s been, a little afraid of what he’s producing, even while throwing his whole heart into it, or he can finally admit that maybe he’s not awful.

 

So he promises.

 

Julian drops the jump drive into Louis’ hand, claps him on the back in a quick hug, and then there’s nothing left for Louis to do but take a cab home.

 

Harry’s got something delicious smelling simmering on the stove, some sort of soup, and he’s hunched over his laptop on the counter, typing something that’s made the crease between his brows grow even more pronounced.

 

He looks up when Louis walks in, dropping his bag on the floor, and greeting him in a quick, tight hug.

 

Louis decides there’s no time like the present. “You busy?” he asks.

 

Harry glances down at his laptop screen, then back up at Louis, hesitating before shaking his head. Louis wonders for a split second if maybe Harry saw the tension on his face and thinks it’s serious.

 

Well, as far as Louis is concerned, it _is_ serious.

 

Louis holds up the jump drive. “You said you wanted to listen,” he says.

 

If Louis thought Harry wouldn’t immediately pounce on his offer, he’s wrong. Harry grabs the drive out of his hand and has it in the computer before Louis can even continue.

 

“Wait,” Harry says, his fingers poised on the mousepad. “I want to listen to this in bed. With you.”

 

“You did. . .” Louis pauses at how squeaky his voice suddenly sounds, and clears his throat. “You did, you did say that.”

 

Harry scoops the laptop up in one hand and wraps his other arm around Louis and wastes no time in essentially dragging him out of the kitchen, down the hall, and into the bedroom, where he gently pushes Louis down to the bed, and sets the laptop on the top of the bookshelf.

 

“Which one should we listen to first?” Harry asks, his fingers flying over the laptop, clearly adding the songs and setting up a playlist. “Is there a particular order?”  
  
They haven’t officially titled the songs yet, so they’re numbered instead. “Any order is fine, really,” Louis says, settling onto the bed and trying not fidget with the sudden nerves blooming deep in his tummy.

 

Harry finishes his setup, and the music starts. Louis swallows hard. “Just so you know,” he talks over the synthesized horns that sounded so good in the studio and now he worries sound silly and dated, “these are really all demo tracks.”

 

Harry’s glance over is sweetly chastising. “I know, Peaches, now stop talking so I can enjoy hearing you.”

 

He wraps an arm around Louis’ middle and they fall back in the bed, Louis laying on Harry, resting his head on his chest. They’re quiet as they listen to the [first track](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OE2qEpkWWoQ) which he’d partially conceived before ever meeting Harry, but was completely revamped after  all the heady, sudden, devastating feelings that Louis didn’t know what to do with before their first date

 

Harry doesn’t say anything as the first segues into the second. [This is a really fun track](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=77PzXCKDyVQ)that was one that Julian brought to the table after hearing Louis babble about his feelings and his insecurities for an entire morning and afternoon.

 

Louis thought back then that they really couldn’t be paying Julian enough, but when he’d mentioned that offhandedly, Julian had contradicted him. “Actually,” he’d said, “you can’t put a price on real inspiration, and you have great material. I’d do this for a lot less actually.”

 

Louis had scrunched his nose. “Even though I’m a literal mess of terrible Valentine’s Day card clichés?” And that’s when Julian had played him this song.

 

Harry continues to be quiet, carding his hands through Louis’ soft fringe, and Louis tries to keep his breathing even and not betray his own quickening nerves.

 

[The third track begins,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W374tWnsk70) and Louis struggles because this one is the sappiest of the bunch. He’d scribbled half the lyrics late one night while Harry slept, after Harry had come from the old bakery, frustrated and stymied by what he saw as a lack of innovation and foresight. And all Louis had wanted to do, as Harry had paced up and down in the living room of Louis’ flat, was reassure him that he was worth something—an infinite amount of somethings, if Louis had a say—and would end up leaving those morons in the dust.

 

At the time, all he’d felt comfortable doing, all he’d felt Harry was ready to hear, was how much Louis loved Harry’s baking. He hadn’t been ready to hear how much Louis loved _him_. Harry had eventually calmed down, and Louis had ordered Indian and fucked him into the mattress later that night, still feeling like everything he’d done had somehow been inadequate, full of unspoken words that he couldn’t voice.

 

But he could write them down. So he had, pouring out everything he hadn’t said into the song.

 

Louis wasn’t entirely sure, but he thought Harry’s hands might have trembled as the song drew to a close. Maybe he’d understood without Louis having to explain.

 

There were two more songs that finished demos up on—[the favorite color track](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0gpGqGHEr_8) that Louis and Julian had wrote in a blur one afternoon at the studio, and [another](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iBPw0l26L58) that Louis had originally conceived as more of a singer-songwriter track, that they’d redone as with Julian referred to as a “sick club vibe.”

 

The laptop went quiet and Harry stayed that way. Louis’ stomach trembled with fear. What if Harry hadn’t understood? What if he’d _misunderstood_?

 

Louis wasn’t sure which was worse, honestly.

 

“Lou,” Harry finally said so softly it felt like barely a rumble in his chest, “it’s not going to be easy to deserve those songs.”

 

Louis’ fingertips tighten on Harry’s hips. He can’t look him in the eye right now so he keeps his eyes closed and his head turned resolutely away. “You already do,” he murmurs into the cotton of Harry’s t-shirt. It’s one of his older ones, stretched out and baby soft, washed a thousand or so times since he bought it. It smells like Harry—vanilla and lemon and rosemary. Louis wants to bury his face in the scent and let it take away all his awkwardness.

 

“They’re beautiful. . .like, actually, truly brilliant. I’m so proud of you.”

 

The tight knot inside him begins to loosen a little. It’s not as if Louis truly thought Harry would say anything else—but it doesn’t hurt to hear it out loud.

 

Harry reaches down and tucks his fingers under Louis’ chin and gently tugs. “Look at me Peaches,” Harry murmurs. “There’s not a thing to be ashamed of.”

 

Louis doesn’t fight it, let’s Harry move his head until Harry’s own face comes into view. His eyes are soft and full of love. Louis feels a lump at the back of his throat begin to grow.

 

“I mean it,” Harry continues, “I don’t know what I ever did to deserve you, or your love. It feels like a miracle.”

 

“That’s what I was trying to say,” Louis sniffs. Of course Harry would get it.

 

Harry wraps his arms around him so tightly that Louis can’t even breathe for a moment. “I know, Peaches,” Harry murmurs into his neck, “I know.”

 

They lay together in bed for hours, always touching, but talking sometimes, kissing lazily at other moments. It feels like, at least for Louis, that all the cards are finally on the table. There’s nothing left to hide. He’s flayed bare, everything is there for Harry to take, and instead of just grabbing wantonly, Harry is so careful and considerate. _Honored_ that Louis has let him in.

 

The next day Louis shows up at the studio nearly an hour late, so relaxed that he just melts bonelessly into a chair in front of the sound board. Julian gives him a knowing smile, but says nothing. Louis supposes he got off easy not getting a long, “I told you so,” speech, so he lets it go.

 

Besides, he’s too happy to give anybody shit right now.

 

\----

 

“Are you sure you’re ready?” Alberto asks for about the millionth time in the last hour.

 

Louis, who’s cuddled up next to Harry, on their couch in the green room, looks up and sighs in exasperation. “Are you trying to make us nervous?” he demands of their manager.

 

Harry chuckles next to him.

 

“No,” Alberto counters defensively.

 

“I know,” Louis says, “that you’re not used to not being needed at a time like this. But you’ve probably never had two clients in something together before. I mean, isn’t there some sort of press release you can go write or something?”

 

Except Louis knows there are a few press releases that have already been written, waiting for when the shows start to air. One of them talks about them winning. One of them is them being gracious losers. And a third, which is still the source of some conflict, is publicly confirming Louis and Harry’s relationship.

 

Not that the world really believes otherwise. Everybody knows. Every interview they give now feels like an unspoken confirmation, though every host tries to unobtrusively ask for confirmation. Alberto has threatened both Louis and Harry with every bad thing he can think of to keep it under wraps until what he calls, “the right time.”

 

Louis was worried at first that “the right time,” was going to be never, but Alberto set him straight quickly, outlining how a lot of their post- _Kitchen Wars_ promotion is better with them publicly together. But Louis is still antsy and still walks a very fine line with interviewers.

 

Alberto is always endearingly annoyed afterwards, but it worth it for the way Harry laughs at some of Louis’ cheekier responses.

 

“Fine,” Alberto grumbles. “I’ll go wait somewhere else.”

 

They’re left alone finally. “Are you ready?” Harry asks, even though he’s asked a version of this question about half a dozen times in the last two days.

 

“I’m fine,” Louis says, and to his own surprise, it’s true. He really wants to win, but also he knows it’s not strictly necessary. And that fact has added considerably to his rather calm attitude.

 

“You know, you’re probably going to have to cook,” Harry says gently.

 

He’s been working up to this one too, like Louis isn’t perfectly aware that part of the show’s point was to teach him how to cook. If he and Harry weren’t practically living together and Louis hadn’t absorbed some of his newfound knowledge by osmosis, no doubt that he wouldn’t have learned a thing. But he has, and though he’s not sure how to use all of it, surely some of it will come in handy today.

 

“I know,” Louis says.

 

“Keep it simple,” Harry suggests. “Don’t worry about fancy. Whatever you have to make, we’ll keep it as simple as we can.”

 

If Louis felt even a hair more comfortable in his cooking skills, he’d be offended, but the truth is, simple is probably all he’s capable of doing.

 

Ten minutes later, after a final hair and makeup check, they head to the filming kitchen.

 

As filming begins and Alton walks in, Louis is totally fine. Not nervous at all. If he has to reach out for Harry’s hand as Alton makes the guest judge announcement, that’s fine too.

 

“Welcome to _Kitchen Wars_ , the most spectacular Ina Garden, of _Barefoot Contessa_ fame.”

 

Louis actually recognizes Ina, because Harry _loves_ her and insists on watching her re-runs all the time. Louis has no opinion on her, really, except that he knows what Harry’s face is like when Alton announces her.

 

Louis met Justin Timberlake once, and he has a feeling he didn’t look quite as starstruck as Harry does right now.

 

“For today’s challenge,” Alton continues, “we have a culmination of everything you’ve learned on the last weeks of _Kitchen Wars_. Louis and Melissa will be doing _all_ the cooking. Harry and Niall are allowed to talk them through their dish, to _help_ and to _assist_ , only. No touching of any food or equipment in this kitchen during the next sixty minutes.”

 

Louis knew it was coming but it still feels like a blow. He glances over at Melissa and to his relief, she looks a little pale as well. At least he’s not absolutely terrified alone. Harry grips his hand a little harder, a quick squeeze that says everything he can’t say out loud—“you’re fine,” “you’re good,” “you’re going to be brilliant,” and, “I’m going to be right here with you the whole way.”

 

“Your theme this week is _personal inspiration_. Anything goes. You’d better be able to tie it back to your life, _somehow_. Before your sixty second shopping time, I believe it’s only fair to allow you a minute to consult with your chef,” Alton says, pretending like he’s generous when in reality it’s still only _sixty seconds_.

 

Louis turns to Harry. “A cheese toastie,” Harry says before Louis even asks him. “With a roasted tomato soup. Get bread, cheese, butter, tomatoes, onion, garlic, cream, basil. Very simple, but with strong, memorable flavors.”

 

Normally, Louis trusts Harry completely when it comes to cooking. After all, that’s what Harry _does_. But this dish sounds so simple, when he’s sure that Niall and Melissa will attempt something more complex. Louis opens his mouth to argue, but Harry presses his finger to Louis’ lips before he can even start to argue. “Yes,” Harry continues, “Niall and Melissa will try something harder. But your execution will set you apart.”

 

It should be weird. Louis hadn’t even voiced his concern, and here Harry is, answering it like Louis had. But maybe that’s what else sets them apart—they are absolutely on the same wavelength.

 

Even if they had more to discuss, they don’t have time. Alton announces it’s time to shop and this time it’s Louis who grabs the basket and races off to the pantry. He still remembers where a good portion of the ingredients he needs are kept—that too makes it lucky, that one of the two times he was in here, he was making a very similar dish. Maybe Harry _has_ thought this through.

 

Louis moves through the pantry like a whirlwind, desperately trying to remember every ingredient that Harry rattled off, and picking up additional besides, because it can’t hurt to have more options than less options, especially with the auctions coming up.

 

He scoots past the glass pantry doors with a half a second to spare and a full basket which he plops down on their station. Harry glances through it, a thoughtful expression on his face.

 

“Now for our final two auction items. First,” Alton says, “a true challenge for our celebrity—whoever wins this auction can doom their opponent by removing all knives and utensils from their station and forcing them to make do with this!” Alton whips a leatherman tool from behind his back. He spends the next thirty seconds, going through some of the available items besides the tiny knife, but Louis has already made up his mind. Melissa is going to have to deal with this. They have a lot of money—quite a bit more than Niall and Melissa, in fact—and there is no reason to save it. This is it. So he bids fast and high, Niall and Melissa sending them glares of pure annoyance as Louis jacks the price up.

 

He finally wins the auction at eleven thousand pounds. It’s ridiculous, but it’s not like they can take the money with them. Louis considers it money well spent, and Melissa’s daggered glare makes it even more worthwhile.

 

“Next item up for auction,” Alton continues, “is the power to remove a single item from your competitor’s basket. I would definitely take your time choosing the best thing to remove, should you win this, because that could easily be enough to sink them.”

 

Louis’ heart is what sinks. If Niall and Melissa win this, and they likely will, as they currently have more money than Louis and Harry, they could take their bread. Or their cheese. Either vital ingredient is gone and Louis and Harry will have to design a new plan from scratch.

 

The bidding on this item goes even higher.

 

Once they reach ten thousand pounds and a determinedly stubborn look settles onto Melissa’s face, Louis decides he can’t avoid it but he also won’t let her have it easy either.

 

She wins it at thirteen thousand six hundred pounds.

 

Melissa and Niall hold a brief, smug consultation, and Melissa saunters over to confiscate their bread. Louis makes a face and doesn’t even care if the camera catches it. They’re going to have to rethink their entire dish now. He almost wishes he’d gotten stuck with the utility tool.

 

Alton kicks off their sixty minute cooking window and Louis heart clenches as he begins to unload their basket. Can they even make something from what he grabbed absently from the shelves? Harry has a serious look on his face as Louis places the items onto their prep station.

 

“Well,” Harry muses, “it’s not ideal.”

 

That’s an understatement, Louis thinks, and his heart sinks even further.

 

“I think we still make a soup,” Harry suggests after another long minute contemplating the lineup of remaining ingredients. “Some sort of Italian minestrone, maybe, with a parmesan _frico_ to add texture. You’ve got vegetables and herbs, and you even grabbed this pasta. We won’t have beans, which are pretty integral, but we can have good flavor.”

 

It sounds so much like settling that Louis wants to throw something but he’s a professional. This is all designed as a game, but it’s so much more. Louis _knows_ it doesn’t _really_ matter if they win or lose, as long as they continue to look good doing it.

 

It’s still hard to face the possibility they’ve lost before they even start cooking.

 

“If I’d known they could take a major ingredient, I wouldn’t have suggested a dish that relied so heavily on one item,” Harry says mournfully as Louis carefully chops up an onion and some cloves of garlic.

 

“How could you possibly know?” Louis asks. “You don’t have Alton’s sadistic imagination.”

 

“I heard that!” Alton calls out from his position up front, but he’s smiling. Sadistically, maybe, but he _is_ smiling.

 

“Speaking of sadistic,” Harry says, his voice dropping down until Louis can barely hear it. “I know we’re whining, but they’re not really much better off.” He shoots a pointed glance over at Niall and Melissa’s station, where she is clearly struggling with the limitations of the utility knife.

 

“Everything is so damn tiny,” Niall exclaims in frustration, as Melissa tries and fails to cut through a potato.

 

Following Harry’s basic instructions, Louis gets the pot on the stove, heats olive oil and some butter—“we have it,” Harry says with a shrug, “we might as well use it,”—and starts to sauté the onions and garlic. He’s also turned on the oven, and they’re still going to roast the tomatoes to try to extract the most flavor they can from them. He slides the sheet pan in the oven, and then they go through their available ingredients again. Louis can tell that Harry’s trying not to mourn what they don’t have, but it’s hard. There are so many gaps, because this dish wasn’t what he’d shopped for.

 

“I’m just afraid it’s going to be lacking sophistication,” Harry says as Louis chops herbs for the broth.

 

“Don’t you always tell me that Ina likes simple food with great flavor?” Louis points out. He’s not entirely sure he’s not confused the judge this week with some other chef on the Food Network, but he’s willing to take a risk to keep Harry positive.

 

They’ve just got to get through this round, and even if they don’t win, it’ll be _fine_.

 

“True,” Harry admits.

 

“Then let’s make great flavor,” Louis says, digging deep to find some optimism. He could glance over to Niall and Melissa’s station, but it doesn’t much matter. Louis has begun to feel this is almost a personal crusade, completely separate from whatever Niall and Melissa are doing. If he can make a delicious soup out of these random ingredients, then he can at least hold his head high during the judging.

 

They build the soup one flavor at a time, adding chopped carrots and celery to the onions and garlic, covering it with chicken broth, and letting it simmer and steep with the fresh herbs they add next. Louis grates a mound of parmesan, and they stick the rind into the stock, hoping to add what Harry calls a “lovely, nutty flavor.”

 

They bake the grated parmesan in lovely, mounded piles, til it turns melted and pliant, and Louis risks burned fingers to mold it into fun shapes at Harry’s insistence.

 

When the tomatoes are done, Louis puts them through a food mill, bitching the whole way about how difficult it is. But the lovely mound of tomato pulp left is worth it, he thinks. And also the camera, which just caught them a very cute and very snarky conversation over Louis’ new least favorite kitchen appliance.

 

The tomatoes go into the pot along with the ditalini pasta. They add cream more fresh herbs and some finely minced spinach leaves. Then all there is to do is check the seasoning, scoop into a beautiful shallow white bowl, and top it with a final chiffonade of basil and the most acrobatic of the parmesan _fricos_.

 

It’s a beautiful dish, actually, steaming and fragrant, and Louis feels confident for a single moment. Then he glances over to where Niall and Melissa are standing behind their dish, and she’s prepared a whole _steak_ with an equally ambitious acrobatic mound of thin fried potatoes. It looks like a whole meal, whereas their soup look like a measly lunch. They don’t even have any meat.

 

Even Ina’s kind smile when she walks into the kitchen with Alton and the rest of the judges can’t sweeten Louis’ spirits. He feels like he’s let Harry down, even when Harry reaches over and intertwines their fingers together, giving him three brief, reassuring squeezes.

 

Louis knows what they mean: _I love you._

 

And they do help, they _do_ —but Louis just wanted to win this so badly.

 

The judges approach Melissa and Niall’s station first. Louis’ heart is in his throat as they cut into their steaks, examining the doneness and tenderness, and deconstructing the elaborate cloud of fried potatoes. Louis can’t help but wish that he’d sunk them with the second sabotage—not the first, because the first seems to have not affected Melissa at all, and they truly would have been done if they’d lost their beautiful cuts of meat.

 

“First off, congratulations on making it this far,” Ina says, that smile back on her face. “Second, I feel like I speak for all the judges when I say your flavors on your steak are spot on, _but_ I wish the peppercorn crust had been a little more evenly ground up. I have some big chunks on mine, and it is a bit disconcerting. Some big bites of pepper.”

 

“The fries are well-seasoned, but the cuts aren’t that great when you look closer,” Geoffrey points out. “All in all, a good dish, with some small flaws when examined more closely.”

 

“And I would’ve liked a sauce,” Simon adds. “It’s all a little. . .dry, honestly. But Ina is right, decent execution.”

 

If Louis’ heart was in his throat listening to Niall and Melissa’s critique, it’s nothing compared to how he feels when the judges approach and it’s _his_ dish they’re tasting.

 

“Delicious,” Ina declares, and a little bit of the breath that Louis was holding so close loosens. “Simple, but delicious. There are so many layers of flavor here that it’s hard to say it’s _just_ a soup.”

 

“But it _is_ just a soup,” Simon says. Louis can barely hold back the glare. Harry’s fingers are on his again and they’re holding tight and fast. “Albeit a tasty one.”

 

“I do like that you attempted to add some texture with the _frico_ ,” Geoffrey says. “Unfortunately, no matter how tasty, it is just still only soup.”

 

The judges retire to the green room to debate. Niall and Melissa turn their direction, and it nearly kills Louis but they all exchange friendly handshakes. Niall and Harry even share a brief hug. He can tell Harry is trying to brush it off as not mattering, but Louis can see the tension in his shoulders as the judges return to the kitchen.

 

Of course Alton makes a big dramatic speech. All three judges speak, giving similar critiques. But it doesn’t matter because he knows what’s going to happen. He should have seen it coming, but he was too crazy in love to notice, but they haven’t been prepping he and Harry for the winner’s edit. They’ve been prepping them for the runner’s up spot.

 

“And our runner’s up today, in a very respectable second place, beating out many quality pairs for the second spot in our final, is Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson.”

 

Louis half-way expected it, even strongly suspected as they cooked today and stood silent through the judges’ comments. It still hits him like a brick, the knowledge that they couldn’t pull it off. Harry’s arms are around him in an instant, and they’re gripping each other so tightly. He can hear, in some far off distant part of reality, Niall and Melissa celebrating and the judges congratulating them. He doesn’t care. He just wants to hold onto Harry forever and never let him go.

 

But he can’t. He has to be a professional. He finally lets go, Alton expresses his condolences for their loss, but frankly this final is no longer about them. They didn’t win, after all. So they’re escorted perfunctorily back to their green room.

 

Louis shuts the door behind them and tries to dredge up something he can say to comfort Harry. To _apologize_ , for letting Melissa win the second sabotage, when she couldn’t have handled it herself, for not cooking better today, even though all the judges said that the dishes’ disparities only came in their level of complexity.

 

“Peaches,” Harry says softly to Louis’ back. The kind, sweet edge to his tone isn’t deserved, Louis knows that. He knows Harry is almost certainly secretly angry that they lost. That he must blame him. Them. Anyone. Louis should have made sure this didn’t happen.

 

Louis still doesn’t turn around.

 

“Louis,” Harry repeats again, and he’s a touch firmer this time. “It’s really okay. I have the bakery. You have your album. We’re going to be fine.”

 

Louis finally turns. “I hate losing,” he says and his voice is trembling.

 

Harry enfolds him into his embrace almost instantly. “I know,  I know,” he murmurs against the cotton of Louis’ shirt, his breath warming the skin beneath as they hold each other. “But we didn’t really lose.”

 

Louis, who is halfway to tears, pulls back abruptly at this statement. “We lost,” he grinds out. “We definitely lost.”

 

“No we didn’t,” Harry corrects again, softly but surely. Like he knows something that Louis doesn’t.

 

“I found you,” Harry says and holds his hand up to stop Louis’ from speaking. “I know, it’s horribly sappy and cheesy, but _I don’t feel like I lost today_.”

 

This is a whole different take on the situation. When Louis came in second on _The X-Factor_ , he definitely lost. But he also won, because the winner’s contract was total shit. Second place got him only a marginally less shitty contract, but even the tiny difference was worth celebrating.

 

Today? Today he has a lot more to celebrate. A partner and a life and a _future_. None of which would have been possible if he hadn’t gotten his head out of his own arse and made peace with the fiendish appliance otherwise known as the oven.

 

“No,” Louis says, a smile dawning across his face, “we didn’t lose.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for taking this journey with me!
> 
>    
> UPDATE: a version of this story is being published in August 2017 by [Ink & Smith Publishing](http://www.inkandsmith.com/). don't worry, this version will stay on ao3, but if you'd like, join the TOMT squad [here](http://www.inkandsmith.com/tomt-squad/).
> 
> [my tumblr](http://www.tumblr.bethaboolou.com)
> 
>  
> 
> [the trailer](http://bethaboolou.tumblr.com/post/140610631534/taste-on-my-tongue-by-bethaboo-77933-words)


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